


Contact Clan Lavellan

by ariiadne



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Companions, Dalish Culture, Dalish Elves, Dragon Age Quest: Protect Clan Lavellan, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Forbidden Love, Friendship, Humor, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, War Table (Dragon Age), culture clash, from respect to love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-11
Updated: 2015-10-29
Packaged: 2018-03-07 02:32:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 66,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3157889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariiadne/pseuds/ariiadne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haven changed a lot of things. The Herald became the Inquisitor, but that isn't why Commander Cullen looks at her differently now. When Ora's clan asks for help against bandits, he goes to their aid personally, and she begins to see him much differently, too. Each Clan Lavellan war table mission serves as a milestone in their relationship. Slow build. Long chapters. And now artwork!</p><p>(I would be immensely grateful for feedback!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Contact Clan Lavellan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
>  Cover Art by tumblr user @froschkuss  
> Hey everyone! This story has a slow build, meaning things take time to develop (romantic feelings, in this case). So please, bear with me! This fic will only be a few chapters long anyway. This first chapter contains NO romance or romantic feelings – so keep reading if you want to get to the good stuff! It's in the very next chapter! Thank you and enjoy!

_Of all the things one might expect the Fade to spit out after a catastrophic explosion, the rather meek Dalish girl was not one of them. Her inherently large eyes widened in fear and confusion as a severe, dark-haired woman spat out accusations and grew increasingly aggravated in her interrogation. The irons dug into her already raw wrists as the Seeker brought up the elf’s bound hands, an eerie, unnatural, crackling green coursing across her left palm. It made her muscles twitch. The hooded woman’s eventual interference did little to soothe her, tears freely flowing. She couldn’t remember anything. What if she’d actually done something wrong? What if it really was her fault, somehow?_

_Her pulse quickened the longer she gazed at the Breach mangling the sky overhead. Then came the pain. The dull burn suddenly burst into sharp, searing shocks, running along every inch of her skin from its epicenter. The sensation contained the ghost of familiarity. She was well acquainted with magic, its hum and its tingles. This, though… it somehow felt… spiteful. Her brow furrowed at the thought. Even her mind knew it sounded absurd. Nevertheless, she could not find a better word to describe it._

_“I’ll do what I can,” she breathed, her hazel eyes continuing to paint her panic clearly on her face. “Whatever it takes.”_

_Mythal protect her._

 

* * *

 

Dawn crept languidly in the Frostbacks, the jagged horizon providing an extra hurdle for the light to clear. Slender fingers, stiffened by the winter cold, plucked the youngest buds from an elfroot stalk with painstaking gentleness. She gathered them in a small linen pouch, each blossom falling and settling as softly as the snow around her. She stood and moved on to the next. Only silence followed her, and the trees offered great company.

By the time she made it back to Haven’s gates, the modest town tucked away in the mountains began to wake. Passing the smithy, she nodded to Harritt as he fired the forge. She could hear Dennet and his stable hands scooping hay. Across the way, beyond their camp, the soldiers engaged in their warm-ups and exercises. The guards had already switched shifts, so she received a puzzled greeting rather than an understanding ‘welcome back’ from those stationed at the doors.

Within, early-risen passersby bombarded her with salutations. An impressive feat, given her lodgings sat mere meters from the gates in which she entered.

“Good morning, Herald!” 

“Your Worship.”

“Good day to you, Herald of Andraste.”

“Maker watch over you, Herald.”

“Lady Herald.”

Ora’ana did her best to return the gestures as warmly as she’d received them, not necessarily succeeding. Did anyone even know her name? Perhaps they thought it inappropriate to use if they did. She would likely never know the answer. Besides, she needed to be ‘the Herald’ first and foremost – at least, according to her advisors. For the sake of the people.

But which people? Only a handful of elves resided in Haven, and most of them worked as servants. The entire reason for her attendance at the Conclave was on behalf of her clan. The Keeper believed that the outcome of negotiations would affect all elves, not just the Dalish, and so sent her to observe. And instead of returning to them, she remained as a bewildering, scandalous shemlen icon. Somehow she had a difficult time imagining this could have been what the Keeper meant.

That was not to say she did not like the Inquisition’s purpose or humans, for that matter. Her clan’s residence in the Free Marches gave her more than ample time among them as their aravel glided along their tenuous borders. While her clan manipulated the political climate of rivaling city-states, the farmers, traders, and families suffered it. Childhood lessons in compassion coincided with helping struggling shems on the outskirts of these provinces on more than one occasion. Should they be desperate or, perhaps, tolerant enough to accept their help, Keeper Istimaethoriel saw to it that those in need were taught to hunt; instructed on which herbs were safe to gather; or shown which paths were soundest to traverse during certain times of the year, among other things.

As she glanced absently up to the Breach in the sky, she knew better than to think the Inquisition interpreted her role that narrowly. She had to believe she was the person _everyone_ needed when they needed her. At the same time, she did not feel completely comfortable doing this all in Andraste’s name. Plenty of bad hunkered in the shadow of the good done under the same Andrastian banner, the woes of the Dalish notwithstanding. It was something she had yet to reconcile, even as she fought and bled for the infant Inquisition. For all the humans knew, it might have very well been Falon’din on the other side of that rift that fateful day.

That being said, maybe it was too much to ask to be a person to everyone in Haven. She couldn’t possibly know them all by name, know their life, and expect them to do the same for her. Not like back home. A question still haunted her, though. How did one go from person to symbol and survive the transition?

The answer dangled beyond her reach. Regardless, she resolved to tucking Ora’ana Lavellan away as best she could, even if just for a short time. The Herald of Andraste couldn’t exactly be seen mimicking nug sounds when one scampered by or coaxing fennecs in hopes of getting a just a quick pet. The decision eclipsed mere worries of image and perception, however. A Dalish elf calling herself the Herald of Andraste came with its set of risks. Being the First of Clan Lavellan was, extraordinarily, quite a bit less intimidating. Never in her life did she think she would partake in something that was more.

Varric seemed to be the most accepting. His easygoing nature took off the edge Cassandra’s constant presence offered. Not that she disliked Cassandra there. Although their relationship started off… awkwardly, Cassandra became that fountain of resolve Ora’ana could draw from whenever a demon looked her in eye, or when a templar charged hatefully in her direction at the sight of her staff. And the two of them together – the Seeker and the dwarf – made it that much more difficult to maintain her already flimsy mask. Often she resorted to biting her lip to keep the laughs from escaping. She’d lost count just how many of those disgusted groans Cassandra let out already. Yes, she very much liked those two, even if they’d only been acquainted for a month or so. Welcome distractions.

Solas seemed a mixed bag, at least at the moment. Not too fond of the Dalish, the Fade-wandering elf made that quite clear. Ora’ana had grown as accustomed as one could to negative sentiment towards elves, but never really from another. Still, his knowledge of the Fade helped them seal the rifts. She was anything if not indebted to him for that. Nevertheless, he seemed oddly pleased whenever she came to him with questions, which was often. Talking with him had a tendency to stir up homesickness; Solas reminded her so much of Keeper Istimaethoriel, and his journeys into the Fade, however terrifying in theory, mystified the Dalish girl, filling her with possibilities. If she could do as he did, what could she learn? Keepers were already tasked with safeguarding the Elven language and traditions. But much had still been lost. Imagine what she could recover. Imagine the kind of Keeper she could be.

Was that even still an option?

 

* * *

 

_That very panic paired with the mere gut-wrenching possibility of guilt fueled her all the way to the forward camp. It made traversing the snowy, uneven mountain paths easy. She welcomed the weight of a staff in her grasp, hoping it might quell her constant shaking. If it worked, she did not notice. Too busy fending off demons falling from a hole in the sky. But she could close the rifts. She could help. But did that also mean she’d opened them as well? She prayed the confidence radiating from Solas and Varric’s levity would obscure her clawing anxiety. She saw the knowing in their eyes, however. They said nothing about it._

_Roderick’s words stung all the more. She would later reflect angrily on the small jump her heart took when he suggested falling back. But that was not an option. When given a choice, she took little time to deliberate. Any other day, she would have chosen the mountain pass without a second thought._

_“I say we charge,” she announced, puzzled by the mask of certainty coating her voice. Adrenaline had long taken over, and the ache in her arm from the mark’s recent outburst felt fresh. The agony crept over her like vines. “I won’t survive long enough for your trial. Whatever happens, happens now.” It sounded stronger, braver than she felt. The Seeker Cassandra sent her a firm yet subtle look of what seemed to be approval. The elf did her best to keep her own disappointment from her outward expression, letting it instead settle into the pit of her stomach with the rest of her feelings. Varric’s sidelong glance let her know he caught it, at least. She was no good at this._

_Andruil give her strength. She must not waver._

  

* * *

 

Her quarters looked no more different than when she had first awoken after sealing the rift at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, except for maybe a change of bedspread and the various herbs hanging to dry. Never one to really accumulate possessions, Ora was unaccustomed to having such a large, stationary space to herself and often unwittingly departed soon after entering. This time, at least, she had something to do. She did not even shed her coat before placing the elfroot sprouts on the windowsill to wither. She threw a few more logs on the flames for good measure, hoping to strip the air of as much moisture as possible. The bundles already strung up were drying quite nicely. Ora then grabbed a cast iron kettle from the hearth and set it over the rejuvenated fire.

Her stay at Haven would be short-lived. Mother Giselle’s advice to travel to Val Royeaux to confront the Chantry was being set into motion at that very moment. They’d returned only to deposit the holy mother and deliver the horses from Master Dennet. But that did not mean a time of rest and reprieve. As soon as she left her quarters, a messenger delivered a summons to the war table at noon. Unsurprising. She’d been in brief correspondence with each of her advisors while working in the Hinterlands, only just starting to get a reign on how it all worked. Josephine in particular kept her up to date as much as possible on any developments within the Inquisition; at the same time, she did her best to explain how the rest of the world worked without writing a novel or coming across as condescending – or both. Ora’ana thought her a saint for it. A Dalish elf suddenly in charge of the fate of a world in which she barely felt she belonged? She would eat anything Josephine – or any of her advisors – fed her if it meant not letting everything crumble in her grasp.

How frustrating it must be for them, she thought. Like crowning a child king after the untimely death of his parents. Her rueful sigh came out in a large cloud. Her naiveté did nothing if not fuel her resolve for ridding herself of it. The elf grew tired of the twisting ball of guilty inadequacy lodged in her chest.

She wrung her thin hands and made her destination the stables. If horses were anything like halla, maybe she could be of some use until it was time to convene.

 

* * *

 

After having accidentally interrupted Josephine’s meeting with the marquis and receiving yet another lesson from the amicable Antivan, Ora walked with her to the war room where the conference was set to commence in a matter of minutes. They turned out to be the last ones to arrive; Leliana and Cullen already stood over the map. Closing the door behind them, the well-dressed diplomat joined the advisors on the opposite side of the table, leaving Ora to herself on the other: an unsettling formation.

“Since we’re all here, we may as well begin,” Josephine initiated smoothly. “I was going to inform you sooner, Herald, but the marquis prevented me. I have something here for you.” All attention lay on Josephine as she handed a piece of folded parchment to her. “It arrived this morning, from your clan.”

At that revelation, Ora’ana quickly unfolded the paper and eagerly read the words. A small smile snuck its way through. The Keeper must have felt her thoughts from across the Waking Sea.

“I take it all is well?” Leliana asked. Josephine nodded.

“They simply wish to ascertain your status, Lady Herald. A relatively easy task.” 

“I should have sent word sooner,” Ora trailed off, shaking her head in dismay. “They think I’m being held captive and ask for my release,” she mused with a bit of ironic laughter lacing her tone.

Leliana let out a tickled chortle. “Talk about misinformation!”

Ora welcomed the good humor. It refreshed the overwhelmingly stern atmosphere in the war room. “The Lavellan clan has no spymaster, that is certain. They sent me to listen in at the Conclave and look how that turned out.” This squeezed rare chuckles out of everyone but the commander who scoured the map intently.

“Could have been worse, I suppose.” Eyes sped to Cullen who adjusted some markers. A strained silence rode on the coattails of his deadpan statement. Ora blinked, grin faltering. The commander noticed and hurried to recover. “Andraste could have chosen our beloved Grand Chancellor instead.” The Herald’s smile returned as Leliana and Josephine jovially concurred.

“Comforting, Commander,” the Herald countered in spirit. He cleared his throat, one end of his mouth climbing up his cheek.

“This really is the end of the world. There are tears in the Veil, but now Cullen’s telling jokes.”

“That’s enough of that,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought this was a tactical meeting.”

“Yes, Herald,” Josephine segued, “what would you have us do?”

“Have we any agents in the Free Marches? This time of year, the clan should be in this general region,” Ora indicated on the map where they’d likely be found.

Josephine combed a lock of fine hair behind her ear, her silk ensemble shimmering in the low lamplight. “Not presently, but we have options, as always. I could have one of our elven scribes take a message to your clan, so as not to alarm them and inform them of the Inquisition’s fair treatment.” 

“A decent plan,” Leliana admitted, “but the Dalish respect deeds, not words. Let my elven agents deliver something the clan needs as a show of good faith.” Josephine nodded, scribbling that mote of information into her notes. It would be something she could utilize in other Dalish negotiations.

“Why does it always have to be so complicated?” Cullen chimed in. “My troops can deliver news of your safety and make it clear that the Inquisition should be taken seriously.” Ora’s face immediately went hot. The commander moved the corresponding pawns on the map to the Free Marches to solidify the plan in his mind, visualizing different approaches. The Herald’s next words jerked him from his contemplations.

“Excuse me?”

The commander’s hard brown eyes flicked up to the elf across from him. Leliana and Josephine swapped concerned looks, saying nothing. “Herald?” 

Traces of disbelief and a degree of abject horror contorted most of her features. Tinges of anger, disgust, or both filled in the rest. “What do you mean by ‘make clear the Inquisition should be taken seriously’?” Cullen slowly straightened, the implications of his words coming through bit by bit. “The only thing needing clarification is my well-being.” Unbeknownst to Ora, the letter crumpled in her grasp. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. “Had they not taken the Inquisition seriously, we would not be having this conversation.”

Commander Cullen seemed at a loss. “Forgive me, I did not mean to come across as patronizing, or aggressive towards your clan for that matter. I only meant…” The longer he mulled over his words, the more he understood just how bad they sounded. There was no way of salvaging them. His jaw tightened. “Forgive me. I misspoke.” He massaged the bridge of his nose. “This is why we have an ambassador.”

Softly, she cleared her throat. The adrenaline rushed straight to her head, making it feel as if it could float from her shoulders. Numbness followed. “Leliana, if you would have one of your agents bring them a bushel or so of embrium, I—they would be grateful.”

“At once, Herald.”

“Ma serannas.” The words came out demure, almost regretful. Josephine radiated concern though decided it more appropriate to address the matter at the conclusion of the meeting. The Antivan reenergized the room with a change of subject, though for the remainder of the conference, Ora stood stiffly, shoulders squared, limbs rigid.

“Let us discuss Val Royeaux.”

  

* * *

  

_“Lady Cassandra,” he began, formal as ever though his armor dripped blood, his usually blond hair a splotchy brown, “you managed the close the rift? Well done.”_

_“Do not congratulate me, Commander,” she countered dryly, unfazed by the gore. “This is the prisoner’s doing.” Her gauntlet-laden arm gestured behind her, where the prisoner stood offset with Solas and Varric._

_“Is it?” Sauntering past his colleague, the commander made his way towards the group. He bolstered his voice. “I hope they’re right about you. We lost a lot of people getting you here.” When the prisoner’s face met his, the grief and strain in her gaze almost made him rethink his tone. Her efforts to appear composed, at least, were somewhat admirable. She straightened out as best she could and maintained eye contact._

_“You’re not the only one hoping that.” Her answer seemed more like an aside than an actual reply, as if she did not mean to say it aloud. The commander was unimpressed, his mouth flattening into an even broader line._

_“We’ll see soon enough, won’t we?” At this, her eyes finally strayed to her feet, a bead of sweat rolling down her temple. His attention immediately switched to the Seeker, whom he neared once again. “The way to the temple should be clear. Leliana will try to meet you there.”_

_“Then we’d best move quickly.” Cassandra aimed this statement at the prisoner in hopes of dragging her from her thoughts. It worked. The prisoner took a deep breath, winced, and balled her hands into trembling fists at her side. “Give us time, Commander.”_

_He shifted from one leg to another, glare landing upon each of them at least once. It lingered on the prisoner a second longer, discerning and scathing. Astonishingly, she met it. Regardless of this show of resolve, he was far from convinced. “Maker watch over you – for all our sakes.”_

_Ghilan’nain grant them haste. She could not last much longer._

  

* * *

 

He may not have been the best person to talk to concerning such things, but Varric was probably the least critical individual in a hundred mile radius. She would say he was the most down to earth, but that would seem like a bad dwarf joke. That, and he took talking as a sort of pastime. The sky had long grown dark, and the two of them sat in the wake of the fire roaring near his tent.

“I made a fool of myself.” Ora’ana’s head hung despondently, her shoulders slumped and eyes cast to the dirt. Despite this confession, the charismatic dwarf let out a single chuckle.

“So that’s why Curly stormed past here earlier. Don’t be too hard on yourself.”

“It just wasn’t very… Herald-y of me.” 

Varric crossed his arms at his burly chest, amusement twinkling in his bright earthen eyes. “Everything you do is Herald-y. You’re the Herald.”

She snorted, the ends of her mouth twitching involuntarily. “You know what I mean.”

“So, you’re saying that just because you’re the Herald of Andraste, you’re not allowed to get protective over the people you care about?” Shadows danced on the elf’s face, highlighting the crease in her brow and the curve of her frown. He exhaled, a grin tugging gently at his lips, fingers scratching at the stubble on his chin. “I’m pretty sure that’s Andraste’s thing, actually.” That managed to extract a few lackluster laughs from the elf. He counted it as a small victory. “Look, if it’s still bothering you that much, then talk to the others about it.”

“I’ve already done so with Josephine.”

“Then there you go.”

Ora took a deep breath. The chilled air felt good in her lungs. “I guess I just needed to be talked through it. Again.”

“Hey, if that’s what it takes. You’ve got a lot on your plate. You’re not supposed to carry it alone; not even Andraste did. And even though it was thoughtless, I guarantee Curly meant well.”

The Herald nodded, running fingers through her dark hair. An echo of her own people’s wisdom reverberated in Varric’s words. _Vir Adahlen: together, we are stronger than one_. “You’re right.”

“You knew that. Sometimes you just need to hear it from someone else.” Varric’s smoky baritone might as well have been a magic more potent than her own.

For a while, they listened to the crackling of the flames. After all day of worrying about it, Ora finally began to feel peace settle into her nerves. “Careful, Varric. If you keep giving such good advice, you’ll never see the end of me.” She fidgeted, more truthful than she wanted to be.

“Anything to keep an audience,” the dwarf retorted with a quick wink.

 

* * *

 

“ _Vir assan; fly straight and do not waver._ ”

Ora’ana lay in bed, curled on her side, knees pulled up to her chest. Normally cool nights after a day traveling with her clan made this position ideal and by all means efficient – it conserved and generated more heat. 

“ _Vir bor’assan; bend, but do not break._ ”

But this was not in the wilderness in a tent. At the other end of the room, the well-fed fireplace made the small cabin quite cozy. The blanket cast over her lithe frame carried in it the warmth of goose feathers. There was no need to conserve heat. Eyes clamped shut, her whispers continued.

“ _Vir adahlen; together, we are stronger than one._ ”

She had not been a hunter, but Andruil’s _Vir Tanadahl_ was her Chant of Light. It came as a surprise to many among her peers, at the time for her to obtain her vallaslin, when she announced her devotion to the Great Huntress. Typically, Firsts and Keepers alike were partial to receiving the markings of Mythal or Dirthamen for obvious reasons; even Falon’din and Sylaise made more sense than Andruil as an apprentice’s choice of blood writing. That did not stop her. It hadn’t been Mythal’s protection or Dirthamen’s wisdom; nor had it been Falon’din’s guidance or Sylaise’s calm touch that warded off the creeping darkness those awful nights. The fear of failure, the pressure of expectation, the paralysis of terror, the inaction of discouragement, the anguish of loss… all chased away by the Goddess of the Hunt’s charge.

Guilt was trickier. Guilt had hide too thick for an arrow to pierce: a quillback whose every spine was a failed attempt. When turned away, guilt nipped at your heels with its sharp beak, each time a little harder to try to provoke your attention. Should that work, it would remain just as evasive when faced head-on, dodging in zigzags and charging when you’ve finally run out of arrows. That is the best time to strike, however. Guilt meant getting hurt a little, because you know you deserve it. Most times, anyway. So you let it take you down. And while it tears at you, you jam its jaw with your arm and pierce its soft gut. That bit of blood was your penance, because guilt has a purpose, if you learn from it. Never trust anyone who says it does not.

Ora’s eyelids opened calmly, pupils focused on nothing at all. Sweeping the blanket from her body, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and walked to her writing desk. She’d already delivered a note to Leliana for her scouts to give to Keeper Istimaethoriel along with her own apologies for her behavior earlier. That left the commander. She penned something quickly in the dim glow. With any luck, the night guard she left it with would hand it off to him in the morning.

  

* * *

 

_Commander,_

_Good morning! Or, at least I hope, presupposing this has been delivered accordingly and you have slept well. As busy as I am sure you are, I felt it best to send a note ahead to request an audience with you. Should a free moment arise, I ask that you please send word at your earliest convenience. Apologies are in order, and I would like to give them personally._

_Until then,_

_Ora  
_ _the Herald_

  

* * *

 

She’d expected a timely response from the ex-templar, to be sure, but she did not intend to be awakened at dawn with one. Groggy yet panicked, the elf scrambled to wash up and prepare her words at the same time. Distracted, she failed to notice just how bitterly the wind blew; the impending confrontation paired with her rush falsely shielded her against the weather. 

Ora reached the soldiers’ camp to find it almost deserted. Fires still burned but there was no one to be found. Her heart sunk into her abdomen. Had she misread his reply? Digging it from a pocket, she squinted against the gale to reevaluate his note. No, she read correctly. The temperature finally began to sink into her flesh. She shivered, scanning her surroundings once again. Perhaps he was still in his tent? The commander’s quarters were easy enough to spot; his tent was probably about three times the size of a soldier’s, and when she entered it, she saw why. Beyond the fire pit in the center sat an austere desk heaped with scrolls and report boards. She almost thought he did not have a bed until she noticed a pile of mussed up blankets and pillows set haphazardly in the corner set not too far from a large chest. And his signature cloak hung in all its fuzzy glory on his desk chair. But no commander. She exited hastily, feeling more like an intruder than a visitor the longer she lingered. 

Her next stop was the makeshift sparring ring, logs and branches encircling a barren patch of land. One hand picked up an abandoned sword from the dirt while the other rubbed futilely against her bicep in hopes of generating warmth. She ditched the effort soon enough, especially when she realized she’d need the strength of both arms to wield the blade she’d discovered. Without much thought, she brought it to a nearby dummy and began swinging as she’d seen Cassandra do so many times over. Her muscles burned almost immediately. She was not any good, to no one’s wonder, but the maelstrom shrieking about her did little to help either. She let loose a few cocky laughs for each blow landed.

“For the Inquisition!” she bellowed in an octave as low and as manly as she could muster, sword lifted precariously above her head. She brought it down, as forcefully as gravity and momentum permitted, into the dummy’s wooden face. And there it stayed. The elf gasped, a distressed hand to her mouth, hair whipping about in a violent frenzy. Her attempts to dislodge it were met with comical failure. She fled the scene, seeking refuge near one of the fires.

Eventually, the hum of voices and the rustle of footsteps filtered into the camp. Ora swiveled on her heel to see a contingent of the Inquisition forces return from what seemed to be a run – Commander Cullen and Seeker Cassandra both among them. Red-cheeked and windswept, the two looked quite different compared to their usual put togetherness. In particular, the matrimony of melting snowflakes, sweat, and biting gusts freed rebellious locks of the commander’s hair from its customarily immaculate mold; and all at once, Varric’s silly nickname hit the elf with the force of a well-placed arrow from Bianca herself. Fortunately for Ora, the weather had frozen her cheeks enough that the epiphany barely registered on her face. 

“Herald,” Cullen spoke, intonation a question as well as a greeting. His breathing had only just begun to even out. Cassandra regarded her as well but took her leave.

His apparent confusion confused her. “Commander. I… received your message.”

“What?” Realization struck him suddenly, darkening his expression as he groaned. “I told him to deliver it _after_ —Maker’s breath, I apologize, Your Worship.” He combed back his hair, only partially succeeding in restoring its typical style. “Please, meet me in my tent. I will be there momentarily.” She nodded and headed that way, inhaling and exhaling methodically. Cullen’s shouts to his men fought against the wind, miraculously prevailing.

Ora was in the continued process of thawing by the time the commander entered his tent.

“Forgive me again, Herald,” he went on instantly, “the _messenger_ ,” he stressed with contempt, “must have misunderstood my request. I pray you were not waiting in the cold for long.”

“No,” she genially lied. “No need to worry, Commander.”

He seemed relieved. “Good.” He rounded his way to his desk whereupon he grabbed his maned coat. “Now, there was something you wished to discuss?”

The Dalish elf scrunched her fingers to be sure they still functioned. The resulting sting was only mild: a good sign. She glanced to him from her peripherals rapidly a few times, feeling vastly unprepared for the conversation. “Yes.” She faced him now, conjuring the courage to hold her eyes to his. _Fly straight, and do not waver._ “I wanted to… apologize, for my actions yesterday.” The sharp ends of her ears prickled. Her heart fluttered. Had her complexion been fairer instead of a rich brown, her humiliation would have been readily noticeable.

“No need,” he interjected matter-of-factly with a dismissive wave. “If anyone should be apologizing, it should be me.”

She blinked a few times before scrunching her nose and shaking her head. “No, I reacted poorly.” She wrung her hands at her waist. “You are all here to help me, and you all know far more than I do about, well, almost everything. Unless you have some secret knowledge of… halla shepherding, herbal teas, or elven mythology. Then everything.”

A set of shockingly warm chuckles bubbled from his chest. “You sell yourself short, Herald. I do not know much about the Dalish, but you were what they call the First, yes? I can only imagine that your experiences in that regard have carried you this far, among other things.”

She had never really thought about that. She’d been so focused on feeling inadequate and ill-suited that she did not realize she was maybe a bit more qualified than the average person. Something in her mind shifted. “I suppose things may have been a bit more difficult if I hadn’t already been preparing to lead my own people.”

“Which is why I hold nothing of what transpired yesterday against you.” She gazed up to his face only to see his countenance had gone from friendly to quite grave. “Your clan is your family and was, until a short time ago, your responsibility. And I suppose if you plan to return to them after this is all said and done, that sense of responsibility remains. Despite feeling like an utter imbecile, I came to think that if you could harness that passion for the Inquisition as you do for you clan, then you would be a fearsome Herald indeed.” 

“A fearsome Herald of Andraste?” Ora questioned skeptically. “Wouldn’t that be a bit contradictory?”

“Considering Andraste led armies against Tevinter, I would think not.” 

“Fair point.” The wind viciously shook the walls of the tent. How effortless this conversation had become stunned Ora. She’d always known Cullen to be a reasonable man, but an approachable one? Not particularly.

“I spoke with Sister Leliana,” he announced, breaking the small silence that had joined them in the tent. Gradually, he made his way from behind his cluttered desk. “She tells me you often shadow her as well as Josephine in their duties. I offer you an invitation – perhaps, when the weather is more agreeable – to spend some time among our forces. I can show you how things are done here, and hopefully get to know you better so as to avoid any more misunderstandings.”

Wrangling her elated gratitude to digestible proportions was a daunting task. Her eyes, as always, betrayed her. Standing just a few feet from her now, Cullen emanated a solid patience she found surprising. “Thank you, I—” she began before inevitably faltering. Her expression sobered. “In all earnestness, I… I still hope you accept my apology whether you think you deserve one or not.”

He let out a soft grunt. “I do, and likewise.” He glanced to the side thoughtfully. “What is it that you say? Mass seraniss?”

“Ma serannas,” she returned affably, undertones of flattery too delicate to detect. She gathered a ream of dangling hair behind her long ear. “I hope I haven’t taken up too much of your time. Thank you, Commander.” Bumping her fist to her heart, Ora’ana leaned forward in a modest bow before heading for the exit. He mirrored the gesture.

  

* * *

 

_“Well, that was a disaster.”_

_Leliana, puzzled, challenged that assertion in her glassy Orlesian accent. “What are you talking about?” She and Cullen walked nearly side-by-side after the meeting had been dismissed, he on his way back to his men and she to her tent. A good few decisions had been made while others had been thoroughly discussed. She would hardly call the productive meeting a disaster._

_“You know what I’m talking about.”_

_Her thin eyebrows jumped. “Our Herald’s instability or your complete lack of tact?”_

_“Both.”_

_“I cannot speak_ for you, but I believe she is doing the best she can with what little she has. And, all things considered, she is not doing too badly. She is still growing into her Heraldry.”

_“That’s not what I mean.”_

_“Then what do you mean? Since when are you one to dance around an issue?”_

_He seemed frustrated that he needed to explain. “Did you not see the look on her face?”_

_“You’re a human ex-templar. Shouldn’t you be used to scaring elves and mages by now?” she jested darkly._

_Cassandra offered no better. “It was a misunderstanding. Move on.”_

_“She overreacted a bit, yes, but you must understand the reality of the Dalish.” Josephine scolded him over a desk covered in various documents the next time they met. “Civilized men, not wild animals, threaten them the most. For you to suggest a show of force because you assume they do not recognize the authority of the Inquisition sounds like any other noble finding an excuse to bully them.” She dipped her quill into her inkwell. “And as if the Dalish aren’t always a target already, her heretical clan is now the clan of the heretical Herald of Andraste. They are targets presently more than ever. I do not blame her sensitivity. The fact that she even considered you would do something like that, however, is another matter entirely.”_

_The first part he’d anticipated more or less, but the last part bewildered the Fereldan commander. “What do you mean?”_

_“Miscommunication and misunderstanding are usually a result of disconnect. In other words, Commander, you need to be a bit more diplomatic with our Herald.”_

_“Are you sure it is that simple? To her, I threatened her family.”_

_Josephine briefly glanced up from her paperwork, and her eyes couldn’t have conveyed more dismay if she tried. “Yes, Commander. It is that simple. What else could you do?” Cullen did not react. “Have I not said what you’ve wanted to hear?”_

_“Pardon?”_

_“Cassandra, Leliana, and I actually talk to each other, and not just at the war table. Apparently this incident has perturbed you enough to come to all of us about it.”_

_Cullen’s mood soured. “Maybe you should try being_ less _diplomatic,” he growled, exiting her office. Josephine heaved a disappointed sigh, resuming her work. The commander marched down the Chantry corridor, gripping the hilt of his sword. The snow snorted unhappily with every step he took._

_“You alright there, Curly?” Varric’s gravelly voice called as the commander made his way to the gates. The dwarf sat by a fire cleaning his crossbow. Ignored, Varric chuckled and shook his head. “Your fur looks a bit more ruffled than usual.” The glare Cullen shot him made those light chuckles transform into full-bodied mirth._


	2. Protect Clan Lavellan

Cullen stood serenely in the hallway leading to the war room, staring out the gaping holes yet to be repaired in the stone walls. Crisp, clear, scathing, the sunlight poured in, its warmth otherwise nullified by the mountain air. Squinting, the commander watched the wind whip snow from neighboring peaks with abandon. He did not flinch when a gust of displaced flurries rushed him.

Down the small set of stairs to the right, the heavy wooden door budged open with a bit of effort; with her board in one hand and her quill in the other, Josephine resorted to pushing it with her back. Her dainty, flat shoes slipped against the dusty floor. Rolling his eyes, the commander jogged to her aid.

"Augh, thank you, Cullen. I must have someone grease these hinges." The diplomat scribbled a note to herself.

"Or you could try opening doors like a normal person." The ex-templar had long grown accustomed to her frivolity. When it came to Josephine, it was almost endearing.

"I do suppose I could hold both the board and quill in one hand… no matter. Is Leliana already in the war room?" Josephine started up the stairs. Cullen trailed her dutifully.

"I believe so, yes."

"Good. I have some news." Arriving at the formidable dual doors leading to their destination, the Antivan took one look at her occupied hands and then glanced apologetically to Cullen. He shook his head.

"What happened to putting everything in one hand?" he remarked as he pushed open yet another door.

"What happened to chivalry?" she countered jokingly. "Does being an ex-templar make you an ex-gentleman, too?" She sauntered into the room towards the massive map on the equally large table.

"Yes, I am quite the brute now," he went on, shutting the door behind him. "I rest my elbows on the dinner table and everything." She feigned a gasp. He rolled his eyes.

Leliana chuckled. "Diplomat and commander for the Inquisition: both children."

Unaffected, Josephine sifted through the various pieces of parchment on her board. "I suppose we should discuss why I called you here. Word from the Inquisitor's clan arrived not too long ago."

"Again?"

"Yes. It seems they are having trouble with bandits. As it was the last time, the matter is a relatively simple one, but it has set our dear Inquisitor on edge." Cullen grunted knowingly. "According to her latest message, she has just about resolved matters in the Fallow Mire and will head directly from there to the Free Marches. In the meantime, however, she wishes we send someone ahead of her."

Leliana cocked an eyebrow. "That is a rather… disproportionate dispersal of resources, don't you think? For bandits?"

Josephine inhaled slowly, words riding her exhalation. "These are her wishes. I did not say they were the most logical." A small pause followed as all three advisors stared at the markers on the map. Cullen cleared his throat.

"I will handle it."

The spymaster appeared entertained. "Are you so sure about that? Remember the last time you tried to help her clan?" Josephine joined in with delicate giggles.

"Consider it an attempt at redemption," the commander countered dryly, unamused. He gathered a few pawns from Skyhold's place on the map and dragged them to the Free Marches. "I will take a small force north. There, I will deal with the bandits personally."

Josephine blinked in disbelief. "Wait,  _you?_  Why would  _you_  go?"

"To send a message."

"To the bandits this time, I hope." Leliana clamped her lips shut to quell a smirk.

The commander glared daggers at Josephine. "You said so yourself, her clan is at risk now more than ever. It may seem like a disproportionate response, but the clan is an extension of the Inquisitor. Threatening them indirectly threatens her. Sending such a force against mere bandits will make other more formidable opponents think twice. The Inquisition will not tolerate such offenses."

Eventually, the red-haired Orlesian nodded. "Normally I would be opposed, but in the long run, this intimidation tactic could save us trouble. If it all goes well, this could be the last time we discuss her clan at the war table."

"Precisely."

Josephine tapped her chin, not entirely convinced. "I still think Captain Rylen would do just as well. I am loath to have you gone for weeks just for this."

"It must be me, Lady Josephine."

Leliana sighed. "I will have to agree, Josie."

She caved. "I suppose I can see the sense in that. Especially since she has only been made Inquisitor fairly recently."

"Good," Cullen said, making his way towards the exit, "I will begin preparations straight away."

 

* * *

 

Roughly a week passed before Cullen and his men made it to the Storm Coast, boarding a ship graciously arranged by Josephine to cross the Waking Sea. It was a fine, sturdy vessel; it would carry them across the choppy grey waters in almost half the time another bulkier vessel might. Rivaini, perhaps? He had no eye for ships. He left Rylen in charge of the remaining soldiers back at Skyhold, and the captain would forward all urgent matters that may normally pass over his desk to him, wherever he may be. It was not an efficient or ideal system, but it would have to do. He prayed no disaster would occur in his absence, and he trusted Rylen to manage routine affairs with no problems.

The trip made him nostalgic, and not necessarily in a good way. He had never been quite seaworthy – not that the Storm Coast made that a particularly easy task – and so much idle time let the mind wander. The latter was something he wanted to avoid at all costs. Cullen struggled to keep occupied, but reading reports and responding to letters did not pair well with the rocking of the ship. Sailors in the past told him that focusing on the horizon – a fixed, steady line – would settle his stomach. He took their advice to heart and was often on the deck holding fast to the port shroud, engaged in a never-ending staring match with the distance.

His burgeoning thoughts, however, pushed their way through his mental defenses soon enough: floodwaters against an overburdened levee. What first spilled over the top transformed into a deluge after a day or two. Memories. Responsibilities. Lyrium. Letters from his sister. Nightmares. Lyrium. Lyrium again. Worries. The mission at hand. Regrets. Lyrium. A slip of the tongue in a courtyard. Lyrium. Shame. Lyrium. Haven.

 _"You stayed behind. You could have—"_    
  
 _'We're dying, but we can decide how.' He saw the exact moment when she chose. That look in her eyes never left. He sees it then. He respected it. He regretted it. She is processing her own death and he keeps talking of trebuchets and treelines._    
  
 _'If we are to have a chance – if_ you  _are to have a chance – let it hear you.' He could blame any number of things – fear, determination, insensitivity, obliviousness, denial – for giving her such an empty farewell. Had she not survived, it may not have bothered him so much. Had he not watched her grow, it may not have bothered him so much. Had he not let her try on heavy armor and struggle through the snow, it may not have bothered him so much. Had she not obviously waited so long in the cold to apologize to him, it may not have bothered him so much. But she did, and he did. And she's speaking with him in the courtyard and he can barely muster more than a whisper._  
  
 _"I will not allow the events at Haven to happen again. You have my word."_

His reasons for going to the Free Marches extended beyond politics and strategy.

Upon landfall, no one filed more gratefully into port than Cullen; the troops would set out the next morning to search for the Lavellan clan. Inquiries were made in the port town about the wandering Dalish in hopes of getting more specific directions. They marched on for three days before a pillar of black smoke rose beyond the trees and the scouts furiously cantered into camp. They burst into Cullen's tent as he was still putting on the last bits of his armor.

"Commander, ser, we've found the Dalish and the bandits." They did not need to say more.

"Maker's breath, tell the lieutenant to ready the men. Leave everything but weapons, armor, and horses. We go now." The commander scooped up his helmet and his sword, fastening the latter to his belt. "You, fetch my horse. You, give me figures." With a fist-to-heart salute, the first and second scout did as ordered, leaving the tent. Shouts almost immediately filled the air, the sounds of methodological chaos resulting afterwards.

"There are far more bandits than we anticipated, and they seem to be quite organized." The last scout followed Cullen outside, continuing to speak even as the commander mounted his horse.

"How many?"

"Three dozen, at least."

"These are no bandits," Cullen snarled as he adjusted his helmet. "And the Dalish?"

"Holding out, ser, but not for much longer. They seem to have been anticipating an attack. Their landships have been arranged in such a way that they are being used as lines of defenses; traps of a magical and mundane sort encircle the rest of the camp. Their hunters fight, but they are not equipped for this kind of combat. Apostates work to maintain barriers as archers fire from any vantage point afforded to them. Unfortunately, they are located in a valley and are at a strict disadvantage."

"Then let us delay no longer." Cullen nudged the sides of his horse and reared it into a gallop. His forces gathered on a hill overlooking the battlefield, parading into formation. His stallion paced the length of the troops at the very front line. The Inquisition's banner flew on either side of the unit. All eyes looked squarely at him, ready to receive orders. Their numbers greatly outweighed those of the enemy, so he was not worried, even if these so-called bandits were as organized as the sentry let on. The commander unsheathed his sword and held it aloft. "For the Inquisitor!" The soldiers mirrored him.

The Inquisition forces cascaded down the hillside: a stampede of red, black, and silver contrasted by rich greens with their leonine commander as the vanguard. The deafening roar of horses' hooves and ardent charges summoned from deep within their chests shook flocks of birds from branches and quaked the earth beneath them. Bandit and Dalish alike froze in shock and terror as the wave closed in. When the edge of Cullen's sword met with the first marauder's neck and his horse trampled the next nearby, the elves seemed to snap out of their stupor and rally. The Inquisition swarmed the valley, suffocating the bandits almost as easily as a snuffer puts out a candle. The skirmish lasted no more than twenty minutes.

Cullen surveyed the field as his forces cheered. Many of them had probably not even taken a swing at a bandit, but that did not seem to matter. The lieutenant approached with an almost dumbfounded look on his face.

"If you were going for effect, Commander, I would say you achieved it," he basically laughed.

"Quite," Cullen replied, distracted. He pulled on the reins of his horse, turning until he appeared to find what he was looking for. The lieutenant did not think much of it, instead focusing his attention back to the troops to bring them to order and to begin the relief effort.

Cautiously, Cullen's stallion trotted towards the heart of the Dalish camp, smoke snagging on its ankles. The elves were regrouping, many hunters still making their way back. Others dismantled traps and additional hidden defenses, magic circles on the ground fading or fizzling out in the grass. It was not long before an older elf in ornate robes started walking to meet him: the Keeper, he presumed. Halting a few meters or so from her, Cullen dismounted his horse, removed his helmet, and took a few steps forward.

"Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition," he announced to the calm elven matriarch. The color of her tattoos contrasted with her eyes, making her gaze all the more intense. He met it unwaveringly. "On behalf of Her Worship, Inquisitor Ora'ana, we offer our aid. We are at your disposal."

She did not respond right away, instead searching his face – for what, he did not know. Honesty, perhaps? "Ma serannas, Commander," the Keeper replied, a thick sorrow dripping from her otherwise strong voice like molasses. "Thank the Creators you came when you did." The reality of their timing settled into his mind quite abruptly. Had they left another day, another hour later… the clan might have not survived. He swallowed. "I am Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel, as I am sure you know."

"I do. I am honored to make your acquaintance."

"Alas, were it the time for conversation. I have wounds to tend and dead to bury."

"Of course. My condolences," he interjected, bowing his head, a bit unnerved by the nonchalance in her tone. "Please, allow us to help. Maker knows we have the manpower."

 

* * *

 

By evening, the burning landships had been doused and the dead bandits gathered, their bodies thoroughly searched. Nothing of real note had been discovered on their persons, but the grade of their weapons and uniformity of armor hidden beneath unsuspecting rags suggested they were not standard highwaymen. These men had been outfitted. With so little to go on, Cullen had no choice but to pen a letter to Leliana to see if there was something she could do to help. The entire scenario screamed for further investigation. Fatigue gnawed at him. Paired with these new revelations, a headache brewed behind his eyes. He groaned as he massaged his temples.

Stepping out of his tent, Cullen found the night air to help. Things had settled down for the most part; the Inquisition's camp had been successfully transplanted from its previous location to the valley, and the forces set about fires eating rations, talking to one another, buffing out armor, or combinations of all three. The tranquility slowed his thoughts. Gazing into the distance, he noticed the Dalish had finished their burials and carried on similarly. Their intact landships had been repositioned to form a semicircle around the camp, offering them a bit of privacy. An atmosphere of mourning, of course, hung over them, more in feeling than in action. He hadn't heard more than a few cries from their direction. Their halla, having returned once the hostilities had long ceased, grazed not too far away, eyes warily trained on Inquisition soldiers.

A silhouette made its way from the Dalish camp to the Inquisition's. Keeper Deshanna acknowledged Cullen's attendants as she approached him. "Commander," she greeted respectfully with a nod of her head. He returned the gesture in kind.

"What can I do for you, Lady Keeper?"

"You and your men have done plenty. I only came to thank you again. The bushels of elfroot and embrium you provided were most generous and invaluable."

"I am glad to hear it," he said, secretly relieved they gave the right offerings. "I am sorry we did not arrive sooner." If he hadn't brought so many men for his 'message,' they would have likely made it in time to prevent any casualties. He pushed that detail to the back of his mind to deal with later.

"Do not be sorry. You saved many lives arriving when you did. We have lost a few to brigands over the years. There is little we can do but move on, as we do, always a bit wiser."

The Keeper's motherly aura lowered his guard in a strange way. He barely even noticed. "A sensible outlook, though I regret the circumstances. The Inquisitor has had nothing but fond things to say of you and the rest of your people."

The elderly elf chuckled warmly against a devastated backdrop. "Has she now? When I sent her off to the Conclave, I would not describe her words as fond. Though I am sure that was mostly nerves."

"I am not at all surprised." Cullen caught himself grinning. He cleared his throat, restoring a neutral expression. The Keeper raised her tanned brow in empathetic amusement.

"I am still unsure if I should regret that or not," the Keeper went on, clasping her hands behind her. "But it seems she has adapted well enough to some unforeseeable greater purpose. A nervous thing, but she was always strong when she needed to be, even if she was trembling the whole time."

"Yes, she… she has grown into an admirable leader."

"No doubt the work of diligent gardeners like yourself, Commander."

"I am confident I only picked up where you left off, Lady Keeper. I did not have to do much, and I had help."

She laughed again. Despite the circumstances, it sounded genuine if not a little strained. A leader's mask was an easy one to identify, especially from one to another. "Such modesty!" The Keeper exhaled, tapering her mirth until it sobered. "You seem a good man, Commander. It does my heart well to know Ora finds herself surrounded by such noble company. Thank you for taking care of her."

"Thank you for sending her to us, madam."

They shared a quiet moment. "How long will you and your men be staying?"

"Likely for the next few days as we assess the situation and arrange passage back to Ferelden. The Inquisitor is also on her way as we speak, and I should like to wait for her."

"Ora is coming?" This information brought joy back into the Keeper's eyes, even if just a faint spark. He affirmed his statement. "The others will be so glad. I hope it is enough to lift their heavy spirits."

 

* * *

 

They arrived in the port at dusk, and Ora resolved, even as they scheduled lodgings for the night, that she was not going to stop moving. She knew how close they were, but she could not subject her companions to anymore rigorous travel; from the Fallow Mire to the Storm Coast, the entire length of Ferelden, they rode at a pace barely tolerable. Cassandra, of course, did not complain, and neither did Bull – but he was not a horseman and he was a lot to carry. Dorian made up for both of them in the complaint department, but he stayed regardless: a show of loyalty magnified by his griping all the more. And the poor animals, she could not even begin to process her guilt for them. At almost every Inquisition outpost, they had been forced to trade out horses for their own well-being.

After a good meal, she announced her plans to her squad. The Seeker objected; the Inquisitor should not travel alone, especially in allegedly bandit-infested territory. Bull supported Ora, more or less, knowing she could easy take on bandits, but as a hired sword felt little right to oppose her. Dorian sort of just stared at her for a moment, more disheveled than he'd ever been, and ordered another drink. He was supportive as well, but whether it was out of actual empathy or out of exhaustion she couldn't tell. Not like it really mattered. He deserved the night or two of rest at the inn – they all did. She could practically see his thoughts of a long bath written across his face.

In the end, she convinced Cassandra that her familiarity with the area would see her safely to her clan. A mere glance up to the night sky let her know precisely where her clan would be camped, and she could give them an exact location to meet her. Ora left soon after. Cassandra joined her at the stables nevertheless.

"We have just spent a week of doing nothing on a ship. I will ride with you." There was no use talking her out of it. She and the Seeker rode out.

What took the Inquisition's troops three days, the two of them reached late the next morning. Ora was off her horse before it even stopped moving, her legs carrying her as quickly as she could to the camp. Her breath caught at the sight of the two charred aravel skeletons. Her clan spotted her as she neared, a good many of them beckoning the others. The children were the first to reach her, jumping into her arms and latching onto her legs.

"Only the Creators know how I've missed you," she nearly cried, nuzzling the small boy's neck. "I'm so glad you're alright." Holding back tears, Ora pulled back and took a look at each of them. "You've all grown so much!"

"Ora'ana, there was a big fight," said the small girl clinging to her left calf. "They got Sa'har."

"I know… I know. It's over now." At that point, the rest of the clan had arrived. The parents of the children pried them from her body so that they could embrace her themselves. Silent tears were shed. Keeper Deshanna held her longest of all.

"Aneth ara, da'len," she cooed gently beside her ear. Ora found the words would not escape her throat so instead squeezed the older woman tighter. It ached to separate from her.

"I must speak with the captain," she admitted regretfully. Tears pooled precariously along her lower eyelids.

"Of course, da'len. We will be here." Reassuring the others she would be back soon, she swiftly made her way towards the captain's tent.

Promptly informed of her arrival, Cullen watched the reunion from afar though turned away, feeling the moment did not belong to him. Cassandra's approach went unnoticed because of this; only his assistant's greeting to her tipped him off.

"Commander," she hailed him warily.

"Lady Seeker. I am glad to see you arrived safely."

As always, Cassandra got right to the point. "I am… surprised to see you here. Was Rylen unavailable?"

"No. Sister Leliana, Lady Josephine, and I all agreed it would be best for me to oversee this mission personally."

"On what grounds?" This was not an accusatory question, just the Seeker's typical blunt curiosity.

"On the grounds that the Inquisitor's clan serves as an extension of the Inquisitor. We thought it best I come in force to send a message." Cassandra seemed unconvinced, though she would not challenge it. "And it was a good thing, too. These were no ordinary bandits."

That piqued her interest and cast the doubt from her features. "How so?"

"Armed to the teeth and armored like varghests. Organized. And there were forty-two of them." Cassandra scoffed. "There is obviously something else at play here. I have already sent word to Sister Leliana to see if she can find anything further. We found few clues."

"I am sure the Inquisitor will appreciate it." As if summoned by the Seeker's statement, Ora'ana joined them. Out of breath, the elf squinted her eyes at the sight of Cullen, thinking it maybe a trick of her sleep-deprived mind.

"Commander?"

"Inquisitor."

A peculiar expression came over her. He wrote it off as confusion. "What are you doing here?"

"I will have a report for you later, my lady. Please, join your people. Everything is being taken care of." She had neither desire nor energy to argue. She managed a breathy "thank you" before going back the way she came. Cullen's mouth slanted, stealing a quick look to the Herald scurrying away. "She looks like she hasn't slept in days."

"That is because she hasn't."

He exhaled. "Hopefully now she will rest easy."

Cassandra looked to the Dalish as well. "Perhaps."

 

* * *

 

The Inquisitor met Cullen in his tent around sunset. She looked a bit more rejuvenated but no less drained.

"Here is the report I mentioned earlier." Cullen handed her a few sheets of parchment. "With a perimeter secured, our scouts have confirmed the bandits have been routed. They pose no more danger to your clan."

"Thank you again, Cullen. I would hug you, but the Fallow Mire refuses to leave my skin. I would not subject you to that." The elf scanned the words with weary eyes, dark crescents carved beneath them.

"I am sure you exaggerate."

Ora chuckled, looking to him. "A gentleman to the end. But I am far too tired for shame or denial. The least I could do is spare you."

"Merciful as always, Inquisitor. Perhaps another time."

She grinned absently before her mouth dropped to a concerned line. "What's this about suspiciously well-armed bandits?"

"Let us discuss it in the morning."

She paused mid-page turn, analyzing his face. "Why, is it bad?"

The commander's forehead creased. "Is… what bad? The report?"

"The smell."

"Maker's breath, no! I just thought you might like to get some rest. There are no pressing matters to attend."

She narrowed her eyes, skeptical but mostly delirious. She relented. "A bath and change of clothes would be nice. But I will be back first thing in the morning to discuss your report."

"Of course." Ora bowed her head in farewell. He watched her near the exit. "Sleep well, Inquisitor."

Swiveling on her heel, the elf walked backwards so that she might address him and continue on at the same time. "Let us hope," she answered playfully, "I may die if I don't." He found her silly, sleepy grin faintly infectious. "Pleasant dreams, Commander."

They wouldn't be, but the words almost made him hope they might. The sounds of her footsteps faded into whispers in the lush grass. The commander remained still for a spell. Hating himself took a lot of energy; motionlessness ensured what little he had left from the day found its way to his current mental project. Cullen pinched the bridge of his nose.

He'd always been easy to fluster, ever since he was a boy. Being a templar and becoming a commander apparently did not change that. He never grew used to making a fool of himself. Admittedly, however, there was something acutely disagreeable to it happening regularly in the presence of the Herald of Andraste and leader of the Inquisition.

The part that worried Cullen was the consistency. He found comfort only in the fact that it usually came about at her prompting; she proved dubiously adept at finding the tiny fractures in his shell. At least his shortcomings did not manifest often otherwise. He was beginning to wonder if she was doing it on purpose. Certainly not at first, but he was inclined to believe so lately, especially after that Sera girl and Dorian had been recruited. She'd grown nothing if not gradually more blithe in their company. Whether that influence would be good or bad remained to be seen. Needless to say, she smiled more and she laughed more. If that was a result of the friend of Red Jenny and the Tevinter mage, then, well, he supposed it was good. Not good for his ego, maybe. But good for her. And that, too, was comforting.

That last thought resonated like a chord in his mind, the vibrations sinking listlessly into every muscle and bone. For a moment, there was only a dim humming in his ears and a pool of warmth searing his abdomen. His armor a crucible, Cullen felt his skin suddenly ooze with heat. He clamped his eyes shut.

Unprofessional, immature, and foolish. He repeated that in his head over and over again. Shame wrung that molten feeling from his stomach. He vowed he would not let history repeat itself. Did he forget what happened the last time he let ridiculous emotions merge with his responsibilities? The demons in his subconscious made sure to remind him every night. They were usually skillful at dissolving such sentiments in their barest infancy. Cullen had actually come to rely on that. He did not need anything else toying with his head. His duties, the nightmares, and the withdrawal were more than enough.

Yet the night terrors did little. The nonsensicality of the situation hounded the commander. Within the Inquisition, capable and beautiful women surrounded him, and they had even before the Herald appeared. Leliana was brilliant, fair, and resourceful. Josephine was sophisticated, caring, and exotic. Cassandra was solid, sharp, and striking. He may have been nervous around them at first, but it was never anything as humiliating, and it did not linger. What was so different, then, about this?

He endeavored to dissect it, but condensing the Inquisitor like he had with his other female colleagues greeted Cullen with trouble. Rather demure, the Inquisitor could metamorphose depending on circumstances; much as Keeper Deshanna said, she was resilient when she needed to be. That was changing, however. Either the need had become more incessant and therefore demanded continuous strength from her; or the Inquisitor herself was just stronger and had to compensate far less. Either path was admirable enough, though he believed the latter to be a more accurate interpretation. After what transpired at Haven, he doubted anyone would argue the contrary.

Adroit with a staff, the Inquisitor also posed a decent threat in combat, her abilities stretching into a variety of schools of magic. But she was fond of offensive magic most of all, which one would not be able to discern from her disposition alone. He hadn't personally witnessed it, but he'd heard stories circulating – undeniably the work of Varric – of how she manipulated the battlefield with walls of fire and bolts of lightning. If the truth was anything like he'd heard, it was something Cullen wished to see. Magic still made him grit his teeth just a bit, but the imagery of the willowy Dalish elf raining hell on her enemies entertained him greatly.

Elves had always seemed problematically fragile to him. Even the men had relatively slender builds. The Inquisitor was no different. He knew it a disservice to her that he question her durability, especially after everything that happened, but that logic apparently refused to register with his brain. Cullen recalled the disappointing moment he first saw her. At the time, he wasn't sure he could think of a worse candidate to seal the rifts, save maybe an elderly man or sick child. Somehow, though, she managed. The thought of coaching her frustrated him initially. The demons and the Breach weren't waiting for anyone. The hours spent explaining could have been spent solving problems. If the Herald had only been someone more formidable with a bit more experience, things might have gone differently. But she surprised them all. Her current position paid testament to that.

His rash and bitter judgment of her then seemed like an insult now. Viewing her with a certain… fondness seemed like one as well, in its own way. She would speak to him, and he would get distracted to the point where he would miss her words. He blamed it on headaches. Cullen never thought he would be grateful for them. He could be sitting at his desk one minute, poring over documents, and the next he would be wandering some overblown reverie, wasting precious time and neglecting his work. And for what? To map her freckles like constellations? To over-analyze each smile, each look, each laugh, each tease, each purported 'signal'? To gauge every possible outcome of a simple touch? To ponder if she even found humans appealing? Useless thoughts. Pathetic questions.

It was hurting the Inquisition. This was no different than the lyrium, he concluded. Whatever pain it brought, he could endure. He just had to wait for it to pass from his system.

Letting the curtain fall over the entrance to his tent, Cullen signaled to the rest of the world that he was done for the night. For once, he chose the nightmares over his waking thoughts. They seemed more merciful.

 

* * *

 

The following morning Cullen sat, barely awake and plagued by a throbbing headache, behind his desk.

"The Inquisitor here to see you, ser."

He blinked the blur from his eyes after spending ten minutes massaging them to no avail. "Show her in."

She entered, and he stood up a little quicker than he'd anticipated. She looked only a fraction less tired but refreshed, cinnamon skin vibrant against her pale tattoos. In her hands she carried a tray of what seemed to be an oddly shaped ceramic teapot accompanied by a pair of cups and saucers, a small wooden box, and a bowl of fresh berries. A clean set of Dalish robes clung to her thin figure. Barefooted, she appeared natural and comfortable, bright and warm. The previous night's rationalizations evaporated.

"Is something wrong?"

Words came to him with mild difficulty. "Just a headache, Inquisitor. Nothing to worry about." She gave him a discerning look. He rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm afraid I'm also not much of a tea drinker."

Disappointed, Ora set the tray upon his desk. Her damp hair hung in loose dark waves atop her shoulders. It had grown longer since she first joined the Inquisition, he noticed. "Oh, that's alright." She sat in the chair Cullen set opposite him on the other side of his desk, a bizarre glint in her eye. "I  _was_  looking forward to seeing your future, though."

He lowered himself back into his seat, unsure he'd heard her correctly. He tried not to sound rude. "Forgive me… what?"

"A Dalish tea ritual," she explained candidly, grabbing the wooden box from the tray and opening it. "The leaves in your cup tell you your future."

He let out a sheepish chuckle. "I'm afraid I'm rather ill-acquainted with Dalish customs." Reaching into the container, Ora began to sprinkle loose tealeaves found within into one of the cups. Cullen watched intently before clearing his throat. "How does it work, exactly?" he inquired, albeit cautiously.

Ora tried to mute her delight at his apparent interest. "Oh, it's really quite simple. You drink your tea with the leaves loose in the water. When you are just about finished, you look at the messages left by the leaves."

Cullen raised an eyebrow. "And you can attest to its… accuracy?"

"Of course! Why, do you not believe me?"

"No, not at all. It's just…"

An expression of comprehension overcame her. Her atypical spiritedness fizzled out almost instantly. Slight concern and repentance replaced it. "O-Oh! I understand. I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

Cullen finally realized the nature of her assumption. Sitting up with a jerk, the commander waved away the notion. "No, you don't—it doesn't make me uncomfortable, Inquisitor. That is not what I meant."

A pinch of relief colored her face, but she still seemed wary. "Are you certain? You do not have to go against your beliefs simply because of who I am. I really would not be offended in the slightest."

Cullen gradually settled back down into his chair. "I am quite certain," he rejoined in his standard tone. "There are no spiritual crises to be had from a cup of tea,  _Herald of Andraste_ , I assure you."

Ora smirked appreciatively, tickled. "Would you care for a cup, then, Commander?"

He really didn't want to drink the tea. He was, however, nothing if not a  _bit_  curious about this future nonsense. "Why not." Ora poured water into the cup she had been preparing before.

"Let it steep for a minute or so," she instructed as she held the cup and saucer out to him. "After that, drink carefully so you do not swallow any leaves. Only drink a little more than half, however. Do not drink all of it."

That was good news at least. Cullen followed her instructions though was unable to hide his distaste when he took the first sip. Resolving to be done with it as soon as possible, the commander downed the rest with haste. He looked askance. "Now what?"

"Gently swirl the remaining tea three times, from left to right." He did so, accidentally spilling a bit over the rim. He cursed; she smiled wider. "Give your cup to me." Ora took it, placed the saucer atop it, and then turned it over. The tea drained into the saucer. Rotating the teacup back upright, she got up from her seat, rounded the desk, and arrived at Cullen's side. She held it out to him, its insides smeared with leaves.

"Now what?" he repeated, just as obstinately as before.

"You look for patterns, for symbols. The nearer the symbol is to the bottom of the cup, the farther away it is from the present."

He was skeptical, but he did not want to come off as impolite. "Right…"

"See anything?" Ora hovered over his shoulder, examining his cup as well.

He turned the dish in all directions, trying to make sense of it. He vied to make the task enough to distract from her proximity. "No."

Ora's mouth scrunched into her cheek. "Here, let us see." She leaned a little closer. "Ah, right there! That looks like a sword." She pointed. "See? And it is close to the rim. Did you not just participate in a battle?"

Instead of following her fingers to the image in the cup, Cullen's eyes followed her arm to her shoulder, up her neck, and to her face. "And that is what that means?"

"It could. Is that what you think it means? Is there another battle going on? It doesn't have to be so literal. Are you quarreling with someone? Are you conflicted about something?" A taut silence. "Well, let us move on. Sometimes you need to see the whole picture to make sense of the parts. Keep turning, keep turning… are you looking at the leaves as well as the spaces between the leaves?"

"Maker's breath, I thought you said this was simple."

She laughed. Cullen soured at the resulting goosebumps. "Giving up already?"

"Of course not." His self-loathing came across as determination. She grinned ear to ear. "That, there. Birds, perhaps?"

"Yes, those do look like flying birds."

Cullen reacted more excitedly than he'd intended. "A message, then?"

"Is that what birds mean to you?"

"Well… I mean, I suppose. We use Leliana's crows to communicate."

"Then it must mean you will be sending or receiving a message in the near future! What kind of message, I wonder? Can you discern anything else near these birds?"

"Andraste preserve me," he breathed, squinting and turning the cup some more.

She laughed again, uncurling. "You do not need to continue, Cullen. How is your head?"

He opened his mouth to say something but stopped. He resumed after thinking. "Better, actually."

"Good, I am glad." Ora returned to her seat across from him. He stared, dumbfounded and concerned. "Do not look so worried! It was merely an elfroot infusion that needed time to take effect. The tea works more gradually than, say, a draught."

Cullen's amber eyes darted from side to side before setting on her again. "All of that was to just get me to drink it?"

"Yes, and it worked just as well as it does on the children." Ora bit her lips to keep her smug smile from fully developing. Cullen might have been reacted had he not been so puzzled.

"So… there is no sacred Dalish tea ritual? The leaves mean nothing?"

Ora blinked. "I didn't say that. The leaves do indeed speak. I actually do this often… less often now, but when I first joined the Inquisition, I was practically doing it before and after every meeting, hoping I'd made the right choices."

This got a slight rise out of the commander. "You cannot tell me that every decision you make is based off of the smearings of tea leaves."

She couldn't help but be a bit offended. "N-No, of course not." She leveled. "It merely offered me comfort, like a prayer might to you. The shapes you see show you what you are really thinking about, where your real concerns lie."

Cullen stole an absent glance back to the interior of his cup. "I see."

"So tell me, Commander, do you have an idea of what message are you hoping to receive in the near future?"

"The news that Samson has choked on his dose of red lyrium would be nice."

Ora conspicuously brightened, the dark humor hitting its mark. "Ah, that would be wonderful, wouldn't it? Let us hope."

 

* * *

 

Two empty teacups rested in the tray on Cullen's desk, and the bowl of berries stood nearly depleted. The commander sat, elbows resting on the arms of his chair with his gloved fingers hovering above in his lap. Ora scanned the report for the third time. "What do you think this means?"

"I wish I could say for certain. It could very well be happenstance, but I tend err on the side of caution."

The elf exhaled. "Then they are being targeted. Because of me."

"We always knew this would be a possibility," he delicately replied. Josephine's wisdom all those months ago resurfaced in his memory.

"I know. That does not make it sting any less. Some of them are dead, but far fewer than what could have been."

"I… hope you did not lose anyone dear." It sounded a lot more thoughtful in his head.

A sad grin flickered across her lips. "They are all dear, but I understand what you mean. I knew two better than the rest."

"My sympathies."

"Thank you. They will all be missed."  _Falon'din guide them._

A thick, leaden silence fell over them. Ora twiddled her fingers in her lap, blinking away moisture and clearing her throat to assert composure. Whipping hair from her face, the elf met Cullen's patient gaze. He did not seem intent on restarting conversation until she was ready. The stillness was therefore not an awkward one, but one of understanding. Ora's chest swelled. The commander always carried such a bolstering aura about him; and a strange softness emerged from him as well after the events at Haven. She couldn't be more thankful for it than right then. Her gratitude far surpassed those corny details, however. How could she ever possibly express her appreciation for saving her clan? For traveling all the way to the Free Marches himself with a small army to do so? Her main worry was that she might come off as unprofessional. She was more than just the Herald of Andraste now; she was the Inquisitor. Her heart, however, was yelling at her to hug the man until her arms fell off.

What was she thinking? She was  _the Inquisitor_. Surely she had moved past such trivialities? It was as simple as asking Cullen what he thought was suitable. They knew one another well enough at that point. Even if they hadn't, it was the mature thing to do.

Easier said than done. Ora stammered slightly. "May I ask you something, Commander?"

"Of course."

"I know you stated in your report that you came here with… tactical motivations. Despite this, you have… you have done something for me beyond anything—" She continued before he could interrupt with what she knew was probably dutiful dismissal of what inevitably came next. Ora resorted to blurting it out. "What would be an appropriate way to thank you?"

Regardless, Cullen held to his humility. "Inquisitor, you need not thank me. I was simply doing—"

"—I know what you were doing, Cullen," she cut in, "but, please. I must. You have to understand." He did. His lack of objection conveyed that. Ora released a shaky exhalation. "So, what do you think? Perhaps a nice dinner when we return to Skyhold? You know how Josephine loves arranging parties. Maybe you have something special I could have Varric find for you? He located that – what was it? – cocoa, for Bull. I've come across quite a few rare bottles on my journeys; I have a bit of a collection now, though I rarely drink, so they go neglected. You may have your choice of one, or three, o-or all of them, frankly." Ora at last recognized her spiral. Running fingers through her hair, the elf fought off embarrassed chuckles and a deep burning in her cheeks.

Cullen looked at her with an interesting amalgamation of worry, amusement, and confliction. He firmly believed he did not deserve any sort of thanks. His pay was the only reward he should receive for merely doing his job, especially in this situation. He did not do this for her indebtedness, inasmuch as he did not do it simply for strategy. It was… complicated. Watching her struggle with it posed its own problems and convoluted it further.

A soldier decided it was a good time to enter. "Commander, Inquisitor, a courier arrives from Wycome." Ora and Cullen exchanged a knowing look. This conversation would have to resume another time.

"Well? Show him in," Cullen ordered. The soldier brought a fist to his heart and went to retrieve the envoy. Getting up, the two of them congregated at the center of the tent. They awaited the courier's appearance side-by-side. It came seconds later.

"My lady Inquisitor," the uniquely uniformed man began, "Commander. I bring word from his respected Duke Antoine of Wycome. He extends his greetings as well as his thanks for handling the bandits. They have been terrorizing our borders for some time. As compensation, he sends me with an offer: hospitality for your forces until your departure and sanctuary for Her Worship's clan as long as they stay within Wycome's jurisdiction."

Cullen grunted. Ora stiffened, glancing to her advisor in hopes of reading his reaction. "This could solve all of our problems," he offered tentatively.

"Let us send word to Josephine," Ora added in a hushed voice between the two of them. "She said she had a diplomat available in Wycome. There may very well be political implications."

"At your word, Inquisitor," he rejoined in an equally muted tenor. They maintained eye contact for a moment or two as she deliberated.

Ora squared her shoulders and faced the courier. "Tell Duke Antoine that we humbly accept his generous offer. Our forces will arrive in Wycome by dusk." The envoy said nothing, instead giving one last, deep bow before heading out. She and the commander were again alone.

"I will send word to Lady Josephine and begin mobilization. You should go talk to your Keeper."

"Yes, she will need to know everything." Once she did, Ora was sure the Keeper would understand why staying near Wycome was the best thing for the clan. At least for now, until they figured out exactly who was targeting them. And the families of the deceased… she would beg their forgiveness. Her gut tumbled at the prospect of it all. But she swallowed the bitter pill. She was getting used to the taste.  _Fly straight, and do not waver._

 

* * *

 

Dorian plopped down dramatically next to Iron Bull who ate his rations by a campfire. Wrapped in a blanket, the Tevinter mage positively exuded crankiness. Their recent travels had worn him down quite a bit; his hair disobediently refused to adhere to its usual flawlessness, and his moustache curled sadly (insofar as moustaches could convey such emotions). It only worsened when he spied Ora leaving the commander's tent. She jogged towards the aravel. Dorian groaned wretchedly.

"There she goes again. Where are we going now, I wonder? Rivain? Seheron? The bottom of the ocean?"

Iron Bull chuckled, scooping food onto his disproportionately small fork. "Wycome."

Dorian shot him a venomous look. "How do you know?"

"A messenger just left wearing a fancy emblem," he answered matter-of-factly, the food already in his mouth gathered into one cheek. "My guess is that some noble there wants the privilege of offering help to the Inquisition."

"I do not care what they want, so long as it involves baths and beds and civilization."

Bull's broad shoulders jumped with a solitary laugh. He enjoyed the mage's colorful bitterness. "You could get your wish. The commander just sent off a bird and is speaking with a lieutenant. I figure we'll be hearing about it very soon."

Dorian's eyes narrowed as Bull's fork scraped against a nearly bare plate. He glared resentfully for a good minute. "Pray tell, Bull, what else do your cunning Ben-Hassrath eyes see? How does the bird feel about flying all the way back to Skyhold? What color are the commander's small clothes? Is every blade of grass  _conspiring_  to  _stain_  my  _boots?"_

Bull scraped the last bits of his rations into his mouth directly from the plate. He suppressed a small belch. "I've got something that will cheer you up, Vinty."

Dorian huddled in his scratchy blanket like a disgruntled owl. "Oh, do you? Let me guess: a copy of the Qun." He gasped, flipping the pages of an imaginary book. " _And_  signed by the Arishok? How did you  _know?_  Oh, wait, qunari spy. Yes, how could I forget? At least you know  _just_ what to get people for their Name Day. You must get invited to all the parties."

Unfazed, the qunari put his hands behind him and leaned back, waiting for Dorian's tantrum to pass. He took nothing the miserable lump two feet away said personally. Instead, he let the subsequent silence absorb whatever remained of Dorian's misdirected spitfire. He waited. "Our commander has a  _thing_  for the boss."

Dorian's tired eyes glided from one side of his sockets to the other. He blinked heavily, unenthused. "I know I am so easy to tease, Bull, but do not abuse me with such wonderful lies, I beg you. My heart could not take it."

"I'm not lying." Bull picked at his teeth.

Apparently perturbed by this assertion, the Tevinter sat up straight. "How in Thedas does a heartless qunari like yourself pick up on such things? Does the Qun even allow feelings? Here, let us have a lesson, Bull. Vocabulary first.  _Love_  is when people—"

"Why don't you shut your pretty mouth and just look, huh?" He flicked whatever he'd excavated from his gums into the grass.

For the first time that day, Dorian did so without sassing for the first few seconds or so. "And what am I looking at, exactly, besides our chiseled Fereldan commander?  _Can_  you tell the color of his small clothes? For purely academic purposes, of course. It would help my focus."

"Just wait. Boss will be back soon. Watch his eyes when he thinks no one is looking."

"Lust is hardly intriguing, Bull. I am quite sure plenty of gazes have strayed along our good Inquisitor's bodice, pretty little thing that she is. Have you seen those eyes? Those long elven legs? I'm sure  _some_  might find her small breasts charming. The commander is but a man, after all."

Bull shrugged. "It might distract you from the bugs, at least."

"Ah, yes, there is that. Good thinking." They kept vigil, waiting for Ora to return. Dorian, characteristically enough, could not keep quiet for long. His mood had improved exponentially, though, like a switch. "I must admit, the accusation is still a bit shocking, all things considered," he pondered seriously, thumb and index finger pinching his chin. "The commander seems like too much of a pious, proper gentleman to pursue such things."

"That's what makes it so entertaining," Bull roguishly growled. "You can see the guilt show up after every inappropriate thought."

"You are cruel, but I expect no less," Dorian expressed with pointed articulation. "I actually quite enjoy it."

Bull didn't miss a beat. "Didn't know you were into that sort of thing."


	3. Break Venatori Hold on Wycome

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot more fluff in this chapter. I hope it's not too silly. Enjoy!

Varric Tethras bobbed about on his horse with an oddly warm look of amusement splashed across his rugged features. With his back to Crestwood, he and his companions finally embarked on their long trek to return to Skyhold. The group before him was stranger than fiction. There was the Inquisitor, of course, accompanied by Seeker of Truth Cassandra Pentaghast and Warden Blackwall. In addition to these individuals, however, rode two new faces.

The first belonged to the Champion of Kirkwall, his steadfast friend, Marian Hawke. The Seeker aligned her horse parallel to the Champion’s, question after tentative question tumbling from her pale, thin lips – seeking the truth of Hawke’s many adventures, no doubt. Luckily he’d given Hawke ample warning. He probably could say something to the Seeker, but why ruin it? He garnered far more enjoyment from Cassandra’s starry eyes than her icy glare. Even after their tussle after Hawke arrived in Skyhold for the first time, Varric was quick and eager to forgive. It was worth it. Especially after he learned her little secret.

Beyond those two trotted the Inquisitor and their cloaked Grey Warden liaison – the famous Alistair, cohort of the Hero of Ferelden. He was no less a hero himself, but he seemed to gladly shovel all of the recognition and honor to his colleague. Like Cassandra to Hawke, the Inquisitor asked her own polite and enamored questions to the Warden. Unsurprising, not only because the Hero of Ferelden was, well, the Hero of Ferelden, Thedas’ savior and ender of the Fifth Blight – but also because the Hero also happened to be Dalish.

“I’m going to be answering that question for the rest of my life,” Alistair mused with a light-hearted exhaustion. _“Yes,_ I was there. It was _big_. The Hero of Ferelden was _brave_.” Ora grew slightly flustered at the singsong reply; it was obvious Alistair had little interest in discussing what he had probably retold thousands of times – Varric had no idea why, given the vast potential – and he guessed she did not want to bother him. The weathered Warden noticed her withdrawal, however, with a curious repentance. He then continued without prompting. “But that was ten years ago. ‘What have you done for us lately, Alistair?’ New times, new problems.”

Ora brightened somewhat at this, though she seemed to wise up, receiving Alistair’s message. Talk strayed to the Wardens’ recent behavior and then to good old Corypheus as a result.

These exclusive conversations went on for some time. Varric did not tire of them, nor did he feel particularly left out. These were moments he needed to absorb. Observation made up a good chunk of storytelling. From a pocket, the rogue extracted a small, leather-bound notebook and miniature pencil. His notes were never too detailed; mostly key words and echoes of feelings. Maybe a sketch or diagram or two. Sera somehow managed to sneak a few of her own works into the margins in places he’d failed to do so, giving her personal interpretation of people, places, and events with her signature vulgarity. Varric had no idea how she managed it, but that let Sera, in a sense, write herself. Though her illustrations made him wonder about her sometimes. Varric scratched his chin and laughed to himself.

The only time he decided to speak up was when the chatter seemed to die down.

“Inquisitor,” he called from the back of the group, tearing the elf from whatever thought she’d been processing, “apparently there is a new wager going around in Skyhold.”

“Oh?” Her voice scratched, and she attempted to clear her throat. “And what’s that?”

“The Herald of Andraste versus the Champion of Kirkwall. Two beautiful mages head-to-head in ruthless magical combat.”

Hawke threw back her head in hearty mirth before cutting off suddenly, voice even. “Against that thing on her hand? I don’t think so.”

“Our good Inquisitor here is a reasonable woman. I’m sure she would agree to some rules.”

“This is absurd,” Cassandra injected bitterly.

“Don’t worry, Lady Seeker, I’ve already marked you down for Hawke.” Varric pretended to check something off in his journal. This got the reaction he was hoping for. Or, rather, reactions. So many emotions fought their way for control of Cassandra’s face. Blackwall barked a single laugh.

Ora let loose a few giggles as well but was interrupted by a short bout of coughs. “You wound me, Cassandra,” she managed, sending the dark-haired a pair of wounded puppy dog eyes only her elven eyes could give. Cassandra merely groaned and rolled her own. “Who else has bet against me, Varric?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say. That would be a breach of… gambler confidentiality.”

“And yet you simply announce my vote?”

Ora gasped, feigning offense. “She admits it!”

“No!” Cassandra scrambled. “I only mean—ugh.” She knew it was pointless arguing.

Varric could not have asked for more.

But he got it. As the days dragged on, their charmingly innocent Inquisitor gathered the courage to further question Alistair. And he actually answered, this time with much less chagrin, but Varric attributed that perhaps to pity; Ora’s health noticeably began to deteriorate. The circumstances in Crestwood were ripe for something of that sort to happen: wind, rain, drafty lake caves, the undead, angry spirits, and bandit strongholds, among other things. As always, though, Ora trooped through it as best she could. Her insatiable curiosity and Alistair’s apparent compassion gave birth to priceless notes.

“Congratulations,” Varric said to the fallow-haired Warden one night after Ora left for bed. “At this point, she might give you the Inquisition if you asked.”

Alistair shook his head, a lingering sadness penetrating his laughter, as it always did. “You get used to it when you’re this charming. It’s a good thing you’re taking notes.”

“I can’t argue with these results.”

A quiet fell over them. Alistair gazed into the campfire, his next words more like an afterthought. “I do suppose I have an unfair advantage. Dalish women love their stories.”

Varric knew when not to push, not to pry. Especially the way the Warden’s eyes stared inward more than outward. The dwarf’s broad, square shoulders bounced. “She didn’t stand a chance.”

 

* * *

 

Skyhold’s otherwise imposing walls made for a welcome sight. The party crossed the bridge against the gusts, clinging desperately to their cloaks as the canyon yawned below them. Dennet’s stable hands met them in the lower courtyard to relieve them of their horses. The others dismounted with few problems; Ora, on the other hand, practically fell off the saddle, the reins the only thing keeping her from meeting the dirt. Closest to her, Alistair helped the Inquisitor to her feet.

Apologizing and thanking him in the same tattered breath, Ora smiled weakly. “Are all ex-templars such gentlemen?” she rasped, gripping the fugitive Warden’s sleeves. Her forehead shimmered with a thin layer of sweat.

Alistair chuckled airily. “Only the devilishly handsome ones.” Ora responded with her own laughter, but it very soon devolved into coughs that rattled her slender frame. “Oh, I think I spoke too soon. Killing you isn’t very gentlemanly of me, is it?” This only made her laugh harder and thus hack more violently. Her efforts to contain them made her visibly quake. “I should just stop talking.” He could probably count how many times he’d ever thought that on one hand.

Cassandra intervened at this point, Varric and Blackwall at her heels, all three concerned. The Seeker removed Ora from Alistair’s grasp.

“You don’t look so good.”

Cassandra scoffed at Varric’s pointing out of the obvious. Her hard gaze fell to Blackwall. “If you could show Ser Alistair to his accommodations.” It was not a suggestion. “And Varric… go wherever it is you go.” The dwarf gave Ora one last look before making his way over to Hawke.

“You will be comfortable, Ser Alistair,” Ora wheezed. Maintaining a semblance of control and dignity grew increasingly more difficult, much like her breathing. “I have communicated with our… Josephine has arranged…”

“Take her,” Blackwall interjected. Cassandra nodded and steered the Inquisitor to the stone staircase leading to the upper courtyard. He turned his attention to his fellow Grey Warden. “Let’s go, then, before things get out of hand.”

 _Out of hand?_ he wondered but tailed Blackwall without a word. He got his answer when the mild panic became audible beyond the main hall where the Inquisitor was seen, delirious with fever and starved of oxygen. The bearded man led him to the battlements and eventually to a small tower. He threw open the door.

“Here you are, then. Looks cozy enough. Knowing Josephine, you will be provided for.”

“Ah, yes, well, you can tell this Josephine I am grateful, but it’s not nearly as damp or dark or _moldy_ as my usual tastes. Better luck next time.” Alistair sauntered into his new quarters with a scrunched look on his face.

Blackwall chortled. “Someone will be here to attend you soon, I’m sure. They will answer any questions you have.”

They saluted each other in typical Warden fashion before Blackwall left Alistair to himself. Hanging up his cloak, removing his boots, he warmed by the fire for a short time. When the travel weariness began to catch up to him, he sought out his bed. He stopped short of sitting upon it, however, when he spotted a bowl of peaches resting on his nightstand.

_“What’s it like being a Warden?”_

_Alistair peeked briefly over his shoulder to Blackwall who shrugged, though an understanding expression masked his face. The Inquisitor must have already asked him a similar question. Despite his displeasure, Alistair humored her, though he could not completely discard his irritation. “Oh, it’s wonderful! You get fresh peaches delivered every morning, first choice of local village girls, and bunnies, too! Well, maybe it’s not that. Not even close to that.” Instantly, her large eyes dimmed and strayed to the ground._

Alistair sighed, arms crossed at his chest, fighting a smirk. “What, no bunnies?”

 

* * *

 

The commotion in the main hall drew the attention of Vivienne overhead, a slim hand resting gently on the railing as she gazed down below, as she often did. Her choice of quarters may have confused some at first; many probably assumed she would want her own wing. But the balcony suited her more than any other space; it allowed her the privilege of simultaneous inclusion and detachment from the goings-on in Skyhold. She wielded a subtle yet powerful influence as she dangled expertly between presence and absence, here and there, everywhere and nowhere. And it was precisely this that allowed her to witness the Inquisitor return, hanging off the Seeker’s shoulder, barely able to breathe, while at the same time permitting her to gather some of her things as the situation beneath her skirted the edges of chaos.

She would already be waiting in Ora’ana’s quarters when Cassandra finally got her there, arranging all manners of alchemical tools on the Inquisitor’s desk with elegant nonchalance. A handful of servants clambered up the stairwell in pursuit. Vivienne need not ask what was wrong; the fluid clogging Ora’s lungs spoke a thousand words. With a simple gesture, Vivienne beckoned a younger servant to her side. A dainty vial hung between two fingers.

“Draw a warm bath with this oil. _Warm,_ dear, do not forget,” the court enchanter instructed. The maid obeyed, departing with a curt bow. Another replaced her. “Put a kettle on the fire and fetch licorice root for tea.” The process repeated. She soon approached Cassandra who stood at the foot of Ora’s bed. “Lady Cassandra, darling, you may go now. I will see to her personally.”

Frankly a bit overwhelmed, Cassandra merely nodded – not unlike the servant girls – before leaving.

Over the course of the next few hours, Vivienne instituted a quarantine for the Inquisitor – not because she thought she was contagious, but rather because she did not want her to be disturbed. The bath had reduced her fever and the tea loosened whatever lingered in her lungs, but until the enchanter could finish working on a poultice, uninterrupted rest would do the most for her. Vivienne could tell that the elf’s body wished for nothing more than sleep, but her lungs were far too beleaguered to allow it for more than an hour at a time. Therefore, only she and a select few servants were to be permitted into Ora’s quarters until she deemed it otherwise.

Far from worried, Vivienne was confident she would have the Inquisitor well in a week. Days passed and improvement was noted. Eventually, Vivienne conceded to allowing messengers admittance during certain hours of the day so that Ora may communicate with the others in Skyhold, attending to small matters, while also staying in bed. Vivienne of course was aware that the elf’s downtime did not mean the Inquisition could cease to function. But that did not mean she would refrain from exercising her discretion, either.

“Put the quill down, dear, and close your eyes for a spell.”

“Do try to swallow the draught, my dear. It does more for the fever than your outfit.”

“Do not think I am unaware that you bring your tea with you to the chamber pot, darling. I will have another cup drawn up presently.”

Though immensely thankful for Vivienne’s help, Ora quickly grew impatient. Her fever had long disappeared but the cough stubbornly remained. Official Inquisition business only did so much for her, and after Vivienne made a point to criticize her wardrobe – again – Ora prayed to wake up healthy, or to at least find something else to distract her. Sera was apparently the answer to said prayer; the friend of Red Jenny sent her a message disguised as something important, and they had been participating in a sketch war of sorts since. She was in the midst of drawing sagging, hairy breasts on Sera’s rendition of Corypheus when another messenger appeared at the top of the stairs. Hurriedly covering her artistic atrocity, Ora thanked him for the folded bundle of parchment, clearing her throat.

The very morning she could breathe unhindered, Ora sent word to Josephine, asking to arrange a meeting at the war table at everyone’s earliest convenience. They would gather in two day’s time. Vivienne gave her one last dose of her alchemical concoction, for good measure, and left as gracefully as she’d come. Ora tried to ask how she could thank the enchanter, but it was no use. No lady, especially the Iron Lady, was going to outwardly expect a show of gratitude for her work. The elf knew better than to try to argue her way around it with Vivienne. There was no changing her mind, and there never would be.

Despite her itching cabin fever, Ora decided to play it safe. Of her own volition, the Inquisitor spent an additional day resting. She even drank one last cup of detestable, heartbreaking licorice tea.

 

* * *

 

“Good morning.”

He hadn’t even noticed her there when he entered the war room, his nose buried so deep into his notes. Cradling a steaming cup of hot tea in both hands, the Inquisitor seemed amused by Cullen’s distraction and subsequent shock. Her tired eyes smiled.

“Good morning,” the commander recovered, resuming his trip towards the table. “You’re quite early.”

“Ah, yes, well… I’ve grown a bit restless these past few days.”

Cullen set his board on the tabletop and turned to face her, hands resting on the pommel of his sword. “I can imagine,” he sympathized. “Lady Vivienne had you under lock and key for some time.”

“Yes,” she replied, humor lining her voice, “I did not expect to be a prisoner twice in my life. Though I cannot seem to decide which occasion was more terrifying.” That managed to extract a few honest chuckles from the ex-templar. Ora took a sip of her beverage. “What about you? Why are you so early?”

“I am always early, Inquisitor.” Her expression compelled elaboration. “To get my thoughts in order.”

“Oh, and I’ve ruined it.”

“You haven’t ruined it. N-Not at all.”

Ora grinned, her eyes flickering from his face to the cold stone floor. “Is that the Crestwood report?”

“It is,” Cullen responded with renewed energy, glad the silence that had befallen them was dispelled. His chest inflated as he took a deep breath. “And it is… impressive.” He couldn’t think of a better word to describe it. When he had entered the war room, he was going through it a second time because it had initially read like fiction. “I thought the dwarf might have written it at first.”

“I wish he had.” She jested, but ultimately, solemnity radiated from her. _It might have had a happy ending._ Memories of corpses, large and small, huddled in homes and in caves, faces warped by decay, or by fear? The Veil worn thin by the pain and despair that hung in the air as thickly as the humidity. Was the constant rain trying to wash it away?

Ora shook the thoughts from her head. She told herself it was pointless to dwell, but she did not have much control over that. She’d hoped the fever dreams would have gotten it out of her system. The drafty war room didn’t help, the frigid air from the dilapidated hallway sneaking its way through the cracks much like the cool breath of Old Crestwood’s caverns. She shivered.  The elf did not want her short, introspective pause to seem odd, so she spoke up again, building on her previous comment. “Varric might have done the whole ordeal justice.”

Cullen could sense the ghost of the mission haunting her, joining the others that inevitably floated about her head. It was part of the job, and in many respects a part of life, but that did not make it any easier to see. That didn’t mean he wasn’t a bit more… biased, in this case either. His eyes caught her shiver, and he almost offered her his coat, though he did not know if that would be considered polite or untoward. Of course it would have been considered courteous and thoughtful, but that vexing bias made him oftentimes hypersensitive in the most mundane of situations. Instead, more small talk filled in the space between then and when the other two advisors arrived in the war room.

“Are you sure you should be back to work so soon?” Leliana asked Ora’ana.

“Do not bother,” Josephine injected, agitated, “I already tried.”

The Herald cringed at Josie’s sour words. “I appreciate the concern, I do. I am not doing anything taxing. Besides, the Inquisition cannot grind to a halt because of a cold. 

“A _cold?_ Ora, you could not—” Frustrated, the diplomat disregarded that and moved on. “You wanted this meeting, so let it begin. We should discuss the Western Approach.”

The spymaster stepped in, a bit amused by Josephine’s temper. “I have already sent scouts ahead based on the information given to us by Hawke and Alistair. Once a forward camp is established and we have a grasp on Warden activities in the area, we can decide what to do from there.”

Ora’s gaze traced the path from Skyhold all the way to their next destination. Even further than Val Royeaux, it would be the most she had ever traveled. And it would take a very, very long time to get there. “At least the trip won’t be boring,” she mused, trying to look on the bright side, “having Hawke and Alistair around make for few dull moments.”

Leliana chuckled. “I cannot speak for Hawke, but yes, Alistair is quite good at banishing dull moments. From what he tells me, however, he may not have much left to offer.”

The Inquisitor shrunk back in embarrassment. “He told you, did he?” The elf sighed despondently. “His stories were one of the few things keeping me going on our way from Crestwood,” she admitted, adding in a soft, repentant tone, “I really should apologize. I must have seemed like a child.”

“I would not worry, Ora. You would know if he did not like you, rest assured. Speaking of which,” she went on in an unusual way, “he says he appreciates the peaches.”

Cullen sent the spymaster and Inquisitor a bewildered glance. “Peaches?”

“You were able to get them, Josie?” Ora proclaimed excitedly, Cullen’s inquiry going unnoticed.

Josephine exhaled. “Yes, it was not that difficult.”

“And they were there waiting for him?” Eyes completely wide, lips clamped, Ora waited on bated breath for the Antivan’s reply.

“What are they talking about?” the commander questioned the spymaster. She merely shrugged.

“Yes, Inquisitor,” Josephine drolled mechanically. “Just as you requested.”

The edges of her mouth spread from pointed ear to pointed ear. At last, Ora addressed Cullen’s confusion. She spoke proudly and happily. “On our way from Crestwood, I asked Ser Alistair what it was like to be a Warden. He gave me a sarcastic response about getting fresh peaches every morning, rabbits, and something, I don’t remember. So I asked lovely, amazing Josie to get peaches to put in his room because I felt badly about bothering him with stupid questions, and he just seemed sad all the time.” Her joy could barely be contained. “I wish I could have seen his face.”

Cullen stared. A dismayed hand covered Josephine’s eyes. Leliana wore a puckered smile. That was one way to deal with Alistair’s smart mouth. Ora’s silly gesture was suddenly hilarious in a way only the spymaster could understand. Eventually, the elf’s juvenile enthusiasm faded, leaving all three pairs of eyes on her in complete stillness. Her own darted from face to face frantically.

“I… I thought it would be… Is it not? Hm.” Her cheeks burned. She took a sip of her cold tea. Across the way, Cullen’s lips curved into a crooked smirk.

 

* * *

 

They discussed the Western Approach at length. Events unfolding in the Exalted Plains came up as well, and based on the scouts’ reports, they all concluded that something should be done to help stabilize the region. The Orlesian Civil War between Empress Celene and her cousin Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons had raged there, ravaging the countryside. With both sides worn down by fighting as peace talks commenced at the Winter Palace, the battlefields and Orlesian forces were easy prey; something suspicious stirred, and they could all identify the stench of Venatori involvement from Skyhold, the rumors of undead notwithstanding. Once news came in from the Approach, the Inquisitor would take a detour to the plains on her way west to show her face and offer assistance for a short time. Crestwood had, luckily or unluckily, depending on one’s viewpoint, conditioned the Inquisitor and her team against the undead already, so they hoped her stay would be quick and the mission resolved relatively easily. Hawke and Alistair would ride ahead to the Western Approach. Hopefully, by the time the Inquisitor did arrive there, all would be prepared. Josephine, who had at that point lightened up a bit, flipped through her pile of documents looking for their next discussion.

“Ah, yes, here is it. The letter from Lady Guinevere Volant, our ambassador to Wycome in the Free Marches.” The mention of Wycome caught Ora and Cullen’s attention quite rapidly. Josephine read it aloud.

_Ambassador Montilyet,_

_It has been my pleasure to meet Duke Antoine of Wycome and pay my respects on behalf of the Inquisition. The Duke is a most friendly man. Indeed, I dare say he thinks the best of everyone, and has_ advisors _from as far away as_ Tevinter!

Cullen kneaded his brow.

_Duke Antoine assures me that he wishes the Inquisition well, and will offer us military support as soon as his city has recovered from a strange disease that has spread throughout most of the human population, though the elves in the Alienage are thus far unaffected. This illness may explain why bandits were able to operate so close to Wycome with impunity: all the nobles and most of the soldiers have been weakened._

_Any concerns I have raised, he say, can wait until then. The Duke’s Tevinter advisor has indicated an_ eagerness _to make my acquaintance, and it is becoming increasingly_ difficult _to_ resist _such a tempting offer._

 _Yours in haste,  
_ _Lady Guinevere Volant_

The air buzzed with quiet contemplation.

“There were murmurs of some sort of plague in Wycome when we resupplied,” Cullen revealed, an elbow in one hand while the other gripped his chin, “but nothing to this degree. We would have noticed if a majority of those in and near Wycome were affected.”

Leliana’s head shook back and forth. “Then it must have worsened only recently. That would render it no reason as to how and why the bandits were traipsing around within their borders.” She exhaled. “No, something is amiss.”

“That was evident the moment she mentioned a Tevinter advisor,” the commander remarked bitterly.

Josephine contributed to the mounting list of questions. “What sort of disease affects only humans? Or are humans possibly being targeted?”

“Clan Lavellan still camps near Wycome.” The diplomat’s concerns went untouched as the urgency in which Cullen spoke garnered looks from his colleagues. He cleared his throat and leveled his tone. “If there is even the possibility of Venatori presence there, they may still be in danger. Not only this, but if the nobility and military alike are weakened, then the sanctuary offered by the duke stands hollow. Word should be sent to relocate.”

Josephine opened her mouth to agree, but Leliana instantly and sharply dissented. “No, that would be unwise. It could be seen as suspicious, if what Volant implies is true. If the Venatori have infiltrated the duke’s inner circle, then the Lavellan clan is likely being closely monitored. They would most certainly know who they are.”

Cullen’s features crunched in annoyance. “So they should not be warned at all?”

Leliana met his caustic tone with one of her own. “Not they, but she.” The Orlesian addressed the Inquisitor. “You should pen a letter to your Keeper so she is at least aware of the possibility. We cannot risk exposure, so the fewer who know, the better.”

They all turned their attention to Ora who thus far stood wordlessly, her eyes distant in thought, her forehead wrinkled with effort. When her gaze finally did enter back into reality, it settled peculiarly on Cullen. It took him a moment for him to realize she sought his input. His lips tightened into a line.

“Sending in forces to Wycome would likely be seen as a direct act of hostility,” he explained somberly. “The Free Marches are volatile as it is. They would be up in arms. I’m afraid I don’t have much to offer in this situation.” Cullen hoped the look they shared conveyed his apology.

She said nothing, instead switching to the hooded spymaster. “Leliana, do you still have agents in the area from the last time?”

“Yes. They were investigating the bandits.”

She bit the tip of her thumb. “What do you think?”

“This is no longer a matter of diplomacy. Josephine’s diplomat believes the Tevinter advisor is Venatori. He must be eliminated.”

“Then call off their investigation. Have them focus on helping Lady Guinevere and dealing with the advisor immediately, if possible.”

“As you say, Inquisitor.”

“Thank you.” As Josephine finalized the details in her notes, Ora did her best to remove herself from the situation; the implication of her clan finding itself in harm’s way yet again had no direct relevance to the issue of the Venatori advisor. What she had been thinking, Cullen – of all people – had articulated. Ora knew it shouldn’t have been so shocking; Cullen had, after all, gone all the way to the Free Marches to help her clan himself. No wonder they came to mind. He’d invested a lot of time and effort into their protection. It must’ve been aggravating to realize that it might be all for nothing.

At least, that is what she told herself. The strange feeling in her chest, however, remained hopeful.

She remembered the first time she felt it.

_It had been the children’s idea to do something special for the Inquisition soldiers before they left. She helped them brainstorm around the fire in the evenings. After the clan and the forces found themselves near Wycome, the little ones sprang to action. Some gathered twigs, others collected flowers. Necklaces were woven and notes were written. Sometimes they would work into the early morning hours with dying embers as their only light. No one stopped them. Parents often joined them, and she did on occasion as well._

_The afternoon before the Inquisition’s departure, the children dispersed, all of their thank-you gifts nestled safely in baskets or gently in sacks. Every single soldier and scout received something. Ora held back tears as she watched from afar. That could have been lost. Men had tried to kill them, those beautiful little things scampering around with wide smiles and anxious eyes and red cheeks and big hearts. She could not even fathom it. She could not. What was important was that they had not succeeded, and she would do all in her power as Inquisitor to make sure no one ever would._

_This brought her thoughts back to the commander. Ora had a feeling Cullen would never tell her a way to thank him, so she decided to just do things until it felt right. With that in mind, she instructed the children to save him for last. She wanted to be there. Out of sight, hidden, Ora watched as tiny Iriel offered him the first of many gifts headed his way. The sweet girl practically shoveled squished blossoms into his hand, and the commander did not even flinch when she began to tuck them into the fur of his coat collar. A hand flew to Ora’s mouth, concealing the smile no one else could see, giggling. How intimidating and commanding he would look now with a small meadow around his neck._

_“Ma serannas,” she heard him say, and she did a double take. “They are very nice.” Iriel smiled bashfully. The rest of the children neared one by one._

_The next morning, even as Cullen led the Inquisition forces back to the coast, those flowers were still there._

_It could simply be that he forgot, or that he overlooked a couple when haphazardly brushing them off. But that became less likely as the days went on and they remained. It wasn’t until they boarded their ship back to Ferelden that the blossoms all finally disappeared, the gusty winds off the Waking Sea ripping them away. After that, fireflies seemed to take up residence in her stomach and blaze to life whenever he looked her way._

 

* * *

 

Cullen climbed the many spiraling steps to Leliana’s aviary. Heading to the top of the tower himself instead of the usual courier gave him an excuse to leave the office and be alone. He could clear his head. The past couple of days had been filled with preparations for the Inquisition forces already stationed in the area to scout the lands around Crestwood for its missing mayor. A rather straightforward assignment with tricky implications. The mayor’s actions in the report were enough of a bombshell, but the more he worked on it, the more the situation bothered him. The man did what he thought he had to do in order to protect the town. Normally that would have been enough for Cullen. But his own family had fled their homes during the Fifth Blight; if they had decided to head north instead of settling in South Reach, the Inquisitor might have been gathering their corpses at the bottom of that lake.

Of course, that was neither here nor there. He could not pass judgment based on what could have been. But should his feelings really be different because the incident did not affect him directly? Was it right for him to be opposed to the mayor’s choices in his imagined alternate reality but not in this one? Do the ends justify the means?

No, they did not. In this case, however, neither position made wrapping his mind around it any simpler. Sadly, these were not the thoughts he sought to evade.

He kept thinking about Wycome.

_The children of Clan Lavellan, some nervous but all bursting with vigor and enthusiasm, spread throughout the camp, each with a basket or bag in their arms. They all had a different gift to offer, handing them out – sometimes shyly – to every Inquisition soldier. Recipients accepted them confusedly, awkwardly, gratefully, amusedly. Cullen watched them zig and zag, himself embodying all four emotions when a child eventually made her way to him. She was quite small, no more than four years of age, with a round belly and dimpled fingers. She stared unblinkingly for a moment or two at the commander before finally nearing. Rummaging through her woven sack, the elven child produced a handful of assorted blossoms._

_It was in his nature to decline, but how could he then? Kneeling, the commander put on a soft, friendly smile – one he hadn’t worn in a while._

_“Are those for me?”_

_The little one stopped, glanced down to the flowers clenched in her tiny grasp, looked back up and nodded. Cullen stretched out an open palm. She deposited them._

_“Wait!” she squeaked, reaching into the bag again. Cullen had never heard a voice so small. Out came another fistful of flowers, once more put into his hand. “Wait!” He swallowed a chuckle. Although she delved into the sack for more blossoms, she did not put them into his hand. Instead, she tentatively got closers and began tucking them into the fur of his coat._

_When she finished, stepping back to study her handiwork, the commander glimpsed to his shoulders to do the same._

_“Ma serannas.” He hoped he’d said that correctly. “They are very nice.”_

_At the sound of the elven phrase escaping his mouth, the girl’s face lit up, her cheeks turning pink. Soon, the remaining children found their way to him, giving him yet more gifts. They thanked him for helping them and for saving them from the bandits. A boy, a bit older than the first little girl, focused on Cullen with his face twisted in contemplation._

_“Are you a werewolf?”_

_A gasp sounded from behind the commander. Ora’ana jogged up to them, obviously attempting to mask her amusement at the boy’s rude question. In her hair were braided small white flowers. “Melin! You cannot just ask those things! And I told you he wasn’t!” Cullen, his hands and arms full of handmade trinkets, laughed. Ora sent him a sympathetic look. “Your helm, they saw you ride down and… thought you were a werewolf or Fen’Harel, of all things,” she explained, flustered, turning to the children, chastising, “even though they clearly saw him remove it!”_

_“Vellara told me to ask!” The Inquisitor flung a scathing glare to the older elf girl._

_“No I didn’t!”_

_Cullen couldn’t help grinning. “Forgive me, Inquisitor. The helm is meant to frighten enemies, not small children.”_

The crows were unusually quiet. Most of them stood primping their feathers. Cullen handed off his orders to the birdmaster and told him their destination. The man responded with nothing more than a curt bow before swiveling on his heels and walking away.

_About halfway across the Waking Sea, the Inquisitor approached him on deck. His long bouts of staring at the horizon worried her, apparently. She didn’t get seasick; according to her, riding in the Dalish landships her whole life must have made her immune. Reasonable logic._

_“What is Fen’Harel? If you don’t mind me asking.” The question came to him quite randomly._

_Ora rolled her eyes and smiled as she recollected Melin’s audacity. “Do you recall seeing any stone statues around our camp? My clan’s camp, I mean. That is Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. He is set at the outskirts of our campsites to fend off evil spirits, and to remind us to be wary.” She continued with the same humored mortification. “Some of the children saw you in your armor and thought Fen’Harel had come to scare off the bandits.”_

_The commander cocked a brow. “I am… flattered, though they must have been gravely disappointed when they learned the truth.”_

_"Disappointed? No. Relieved, perhaps. The Dread Wolf hunts alone, and Fen’Harel does not offer his aid without a price.”_

Cullen scoffed at the memory. He may as well have been sent by their wolf god, dispatching the bandits and then putting them within a stone’s throw of the Venatori. And those who lost their lives lost them for nothing. Andraste preserve him.

“Everything well, Commander?” He’d been so distracted, he didn’t even realize he’d descended into the library a floor below. Dorian spied him from his lush chair in a small, book-laden alcove. As always, his voice hummed with mischief. “You seem troubled.”

“Pavus,” he replied in gruff acknowledgment, intentionally ignoring the Tevinter’s inquiry. He began to walk away but stopped himself mid-stride. “That… chessboard you mentioned…”

Perhaps a game of chess could reinvigorate the waning confidence in his tactical prowess. Maker knew it failed in Wycome.

 

* * *

 

The last of the pawns made it into the drawstring pouch with a marbly clunk. The game ended in Cullen’s victory, though not just against the Tevinter mage. The Inquisitor had long taken Dorian’s place across from the commander. The air surrounding them had noticeably changed, though neither of them would acknowledge it. They were both far too preoccupied wrangling their fluttering hearts or suppressing stupid grins. To be quite honest, Ora’s suggestion to ‘spend more time together’ had been rather innocent in nature; however, Cullen’s reaction made it anything but. It was just enough to challenge the idea that those furtive glances weren’t a trick of her mind, or that those stammers weren’t simply a clumsy tongue. Did she not want them to be? The question settled like hot oil in her belly.

Uncertainty hounded Cullen still, however. Unable to discern whether the Inquisitor’s suggestion implied something more or if it was just Ora being her usual friendly self, the commander nevertheless battled blush from his cheeks and tried to bludgeon the surging hope threatening to explode from his rib cage into submission. Resources spread thin, he only managed to achieve half of both goals. He nearly jumped when she spoke.

“I will take the board back to Dorian.” She stood and swept the game board under her arm. “So you may get back to your duties.” He got to his feet as well, handing her the pouch of pieces.

“Thank you. I’m sure I have kept you from important matters as well.”

Ora shook her head negatively. “Not particularly. I came to here merely to check on some plants when I heard you two talking.”

“I see. You… tend the garden, then?”

“No, just a few pots of my own. It’s all quite new to me,” she admitted affably. “My clan did not put much stock in agriculture, I’m afraid. I worry for them.”

Cullen’s body bristled with alarm. “For whom?”

“The plants,” she elaborated, a bit embarrassed. “Is that strange?”

Relief washed over him albeit briefly; the escape and validation he sought through the chess game dwindled as his earlier concerns crept back to the forefront of his mind. “No, no. Not at all, Inquisitor.”

“Is that the official answer?” she teased.

He laughed at how their current conversation echoed another. Cullen played along. “I suppose. But, again, it is the truth.” His merriment hastily dimmed, and a thick silence joined them like an old friend. Picking up on it, Ora’s eyes strayed from him to the grass. Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. “Forgive me,” he finally said, earning her puzzlement. He sighed. “Inquisitor, about Wycome…”

“What about it?” Her words emerged delicately in hopes that they might not betray both her sadness and surprise at his mentioning of it.

Jaw clenched, Cullen swallowed his discomfort. “I want to… apologize. I cannot help feeling that my actions contributed to your clan’s…” _Imminent endangerment? Delivery to the Venatori?_ “… continued troubles.”

She softened in a way he’d never seen her do before. Her voice came out wispy, nearly exasperated. “Yes, of course they did. And I thank the Creators every day for it.” That was not the response Cullen expected. Nor was he prepared to handle the way she looked at him. Her eyes were wide, pleading, her brow upturned with both concern and disbelief. “Cullen, the dead do not have troubles. They are alive because of you.” Ora was pained that he might feel any semblance of guilt or fault. The elf steadied her demeanor. “My clan camps safely outside the city, and I have already sent word to Keeper Deshanna. With Leliana’s agents still in the area, we need only wait for them to receive their orders. To be honest, I fear more for the ill citizens of Wycome.”

The Inquisitor’s change in tone immediately set Cullen at ease. It was back to business. “Yes, of course.” Though no traces of distress appeared on either of their countenances and the commander seemed convinced, a weird tension still buzzed between them nonetheless. One end of Ora’s mouth curled into her cheek.

“If it would make you feel better, we could ask the tea leaves.” That did the trick. Cullen’s head dipped down, eyes closed and mouth fighting a grin. The air felt lighter again. There was no hiding the smirk when his gaze climbed its way back to her.

 

* * *

 

Dorian sifted through various tomes beside the Inquisitor, scanning the shelves of bookcases for more on the Western Approach. Flora, fauna, history… the elf wanted anything that could remotely make their lives easier while there. Despite the reading inevitably being on the stale side, the Tevinter mage obliged to aid her regardless. He’d come to very much enjoy Ora’s company. He even considered her a good friend. But that did not make her the least bit safer from his antics. He’d actually debated whether or not to bring it up, but in the end, Dorian came to terms with the fact that he was a slave – no, a willing servant – to that saucy minx known as gossip. “Have a thing for strapping young templars, I see.”

Ora sent him a sideways glare. She stood on her tiptoes at the bookshelf next to him. “What’s this about?”

“Oh, nothing,” he replied glibly. “Just something I find rather adorable about you.” He almost didn’t say it, but he couldn’t help himself. “Especially that ‘spend more time together’ bit. Brilliant, really.”

At that, the color drained from Ora’ana’s face. “How did you—no. I refuse to encourage you.”

Dorian’s mouth assumed its typical moustached sneer. “Oh, come now! It’s nothing to be ashamed of! The commander usually has a steady expression of doom and gloom, but not when it comes to you.” Ora’ana rolled her eyes and staunchly remained silent. “Well, it’s still pretty gloomy, but in a romantically hopeless sort of way, I suppose. You should be proud! Another impossible thing made possible by Her Worship, the Inquisitor.”

“You’re just as bad as Varric,” she grumbled, trying to drop the subject by searching the books again.

“Dear, I am far, far worse.” The lowest notes of his voice rumbled with impishness.

Her irritation overrode her original plan to deprive him of fuel. Her tone dipped down to a harsh, raspy whisper. “How do you even know that?”

Dorian did not return to courtesy, speaking just as loudly and unabashedly as he did before. “Now, before you get upset,” he began unwisely, the elf’s large eyes narrowing severely, “you should be _flattered_ I hid in a _shrub_ of all things.” It was true. After Dorian had surrendered his chessboard to the commander and the Inquisitor, he didn’t exactly leave.

Her jaw dropped. “You were _eavesdropping?”_ She turned her head back to the bookshelf, going on absently. “You’ve been hanging around Bull too long. He converted you, didn’t he? You’re Ben-Hassrath now, too. Why did I ever think I could trust a qunari and a Tevinter, of all people? This isn’t even your fault. It’s mine.”

Dorian could tell she was spiraling and decided to put a stop to it. He rested his hands on her shoulder, staring her squarely in the face with the utmost seriousness. “Ora, darling, I fought off that ghastly _Mother Giselle_ just to remain hidden. This is no offense. This is a major compliment.”

Mouth gaping, eyes searching, Ora mulled his ridiculous statement over for a moment. Her revelation bordered on earth-shattering. “Why do I believe you?”

 

* * *

 

Though Ora’ana remained in Skyhold for a whole month before word from the Western Approach came about, she still found her time mercilessly eaten away by paperwork and shows of hospitality. Josephine took advantage of the temporary lull to bolster their diplomatic ties with visits from various nobles and influential people. The Antivan had long been coordinating Skyhold’s repairs and renovations for precisely those occasions. Between sending scouts to the Western Approach, the Exalted Plains, Wycome, and now on an arduous search for the Hero of Ferelden, the spymaster found her hands full as well. The commander happened to be decidedly less busy than his colleagues; the mayor of Crestwood had been found and was being transported to Skyhold at that very moment. Extra precaution needed to be taken. Word of the mayor’s actions spread like wildfire, and his men had already fended off one vigilante’s attempt on the man’s life while in their custody. Thus, it would take a bit longer for him to arrive.

Beyond that and the run-of-the-mill patrols and bandit control, Inquisition forces went to march through the town of  Verchiel at the behest of the Friends of Red Jenny, for whatever reason (Cullen stopped trying to apply logic to Sera and the Inquisitor’s willingness to partake in her shenanigans at this point). Cullen was also overseeing the construction of practice grounds within Skyhold – a development the Inquisitor had been particularly excited to reveal to him – and, as always, enduring the ever-worsening bouts of lyrium withdrawal. Bad days were becoming more frequent; when symptoms harangued him during training, it was hard for his men to ignore the deep purple shadows beneath his eyes, the sickly pallor of his already pale skin, and his frequent excusals to empty the contents of his stomach. And while he was, by all means, eager for this new training area, he feared his chronic fatigue would prevent him from participating as he often did. No one could think to command the respect from those serving him without proving his own worth and capabilities; sparring with his men from time to time kept his muscles honed and senses sharp. It also reminded them why he was the one in charge.

Good days were typically made better by the Inquisitor; though her visits had been fairly commonplace even before the chess match, they became gradually more frequent during the weeks after. Cullen attributed it mostly to her desire to escape – one could only take so much politicking and bureaucracy. Since the main hall had been completely repaired and furnished, Lady Josephine had wasted no time putting it to use, dragging the Inquisitor along with her. Every few days, there was someone new to entertain as the ball at Halamshiral drew ever closer. The commander could not honestly see himself in the Inquisitor’s place without losing his mind.

As… flattering as supposedly being an escape for her was, he wished he could offer more. However, he was indelibly chained to his duties. The brief walks, the cups of tea, and the conversations weren’t much compared to say, discussing literature with Dorian (or Cassandra, he learned, much to his amusement – though he swore never to mention it); causing harmless trouble with Sera; getting uncharacteristically drunk with Bull and the Chargers; hanging around Varric and Hawke; prodding more fantastic tales out of Ser Alistair… he could’ve gone on.

Needless to say, Ora was just as much an escape for him as he may have been to her. He liked simply listening to her talk about things, and she seemed happy enough to share them. And while that was true, the relatively one-sidedness of it all made Ora uncomfortable as time wore on. She wondered if she was talking too much and if Cullen was actually enjoying himself. He did not look outwardly bored or bothered, and whenever she asked him, she found it hard to trust his dismissals. Who was going to tell someone, let alone the Herald and the Inquisitor, that she was bothering or boring them?

Ora knew Cullen was no stranger to speaking his mind. She only need to think back to his verbal back-and-forths with Grand Chancellor Roderick back in Haven. But, somewhere, that logic was lost among shadows of doubt and insecurity. So, as steadily as her visits had increased they also tapered slightly – not enough for alarm but just enough to catch the commander’s attention.

He wanted to think it was on account of the preparations to disembark to the Exalted Plains in two weeks. He wouldn’t ask. The Inquisitor’s time was hers to do with as she pleased, and it was hardly his business to ask why she wasn’t devoting it to him as much as she had in the very recent past. Not only that, but the Inquisition also came before all of them. If achieving their goals meant that she would never stroll into his office with a tray of tea and snacks again, well, that would be something he would just have to accept. Melodramatics aside, Cullen did fairly well until six whole days passed without seeing her outside of the war room or from a distance. That was just abnormal. Was she ill again? Angry? It worried him, so he did what any adult would do: he indirectly asked everyone else about Ora instead of going to her himself.

He went to Josephine first under the assumption that the diplomat had probably seen the most of the Inquisitor these past few weeks. Nothing noteworthy. Varric was nowhere to be found. He attempted to approach Leliana in the rookery, but Baron Plucky caught sight of him and went berserk. Fortunately for him, the spymaster had to only coo for the crazed raven to eagerly retreat to her arm, effectively sparing his life – or, at least, his eyeballs. He didn’t even bother to ask her after that. On his way down the tower, Cullen almost stopped to question Dorian, but he convinced himself he wasn’t _that_ desperate. Lady Vivienne confirmed that Ora’s health was, as far as she knew, holding up.

Finally, Cassandra provided him with useful information. The Seeker mentioned something about the Inquisitor heading down to the new training grounds with Iron Bull and a few others. Various patrolmen corroborated the claim. He debated whether or not to go. If anything, he could say he was there to inspect the finished product, though he already had (and with the Inquisitor, no less). His legs carried him to the grounds nevertheless as his mind scrambled to think of a believable excuse, hoping he’d have one by the time he got there.

He’d come up with one or two, but he wouldn’t need them. As soon as the grounds came into view, he watched the Inquisitor’s lithe figure fly into the air and back down again. Each launch was accompanied by a guttural roar from the Iron Bull and a series of obnoxious giggles that unmistakably belonged to Sera. As he got closer, he noticed Varric there as well, which explained his absence from the main hall, as well as Cole – no doubt the dwarf’s tag-along, as he often was. They were set quite a distance from the qunari and Inquisitor. The unsettling spirit boy noted Cullen’s presence first, eerily without even turning around or actually seeing him. At this, Varric glanced over his shoulder and Sera cut her titters abruptly short. Her nose crinkled at Cole and scooted away.

“Curly! You’re just in time!”

His amber eyes followed Ora each time Bull threw her into the air. “What in Andraste’s name is going on?”

“Your lady Inquisitits is mad, yeah?” Sera obliged to answer, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t do it, now she is.”

“Do what?”

 _“Mayhem,”_ the choppy-haired elf replied in a deep voice, mockingly.

Varric stepped in. “Tiny here wanted to vault Sera behind enemy lines for a flank surprise attack. Said I was too ‘dense.’”

“That’s because it’s daft, innit?”

“I’m assuming she has some sort of plan.” Varric scratched his stubbly chin, his arms crossed.

“She does,” Cole chimed in. The three others shot him a quick glance.

It was then that Cullen noticed the practice dummies set a few meters from Bull and Ora. “Maker’s breath, he intends to—”

Before anymore could be said, the qunari shouted. “All right, Boss, this is it!” Both of her feet nestled in his palm as she balanced tenuously, knees bent, Bull got a running start, cocked back his elbow, and flung the Inquisitor with all of his strength. The elf soared into the air above the dummies, flailing a bit at first. As soon as she reached the peak of her ascent, however, Ora extended her arm, open palm pointed down at the mannequins. A split second after the gesture, the ground beneath the targets exploded, sending both the tattered remnants of the inanimate victims as well as the elf soaring from the aftershock.

Everyone else braced against the shrapnel. Sera let out a string of obscenities as she did so, splinters and rags jetting past them. Cullen lowered his arm just in time to see the Inquisitor near the earth with dangerous momentum. Gaining her bearings, Ora pointed the head of her staff to the dirt. A small fireball bloomed and stunted her fall, allowing her to land much more gently, leaving a generous gap between her and ground zero. After the shock wore off, she let out a victorious whoop. As Sera skulked away, muttering about ‘magic shite,’ Iron Bull admired the destruction. She jogged giddily back to his hunkering figure.

“Well? What did you think?” Out of breath and excited, Ora combed a lock of hair behind a long ear and gazed up to Bull expectantly.

“Not what I had in mind,” he started, “but it works.” He’d wanted mayhem, but if that had been in a real battle, the enemies would have been immolated before any actual mayhem could ensue.

The Inquisitor sensed his reservations. “Was it too much? It was too much, wasn’t it?” Her body suddenly stiffened in revelation. “I have an idea. Here, let us gather more dummies and—”

Varric arrived at their sides. The dwarf was laughing heartily. “Don’t tell Hawke, but I may be changing my bet!”

That left Cullen and Cole on the sidelines and, effectively, out of earshot. The commander regarded the diverse grouping before him. The thrilling feat replayed continuously in his head. Even without lyrium, his body could still sense the magic. It positively engulfed the Inquisitor, coating her flesh like a sparkling dust, entwining her limbs and swirling at her feet like fallen leaves caught in a crossbreeze. It had always been there, but it hadn’t been until she called that terrifyingly breathtaking power from the Fade that it made her radiant. The magical residue still tasted like metal in his mouth, always made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, but usually out of stress. These stirrings, however, were hardly as pure. Shamefully making sense of them rendered Cullen temporarily unaware of the boy with the wide-brimmed hat still hovering beside him. If he’d remembered Cole was there, he may have decided to leave quicker than he already had. Cole spoke the second before Cullen took his first step away.

“Working, waiting, she wonders if and wishes when.” Cullen whipped his attention to Cole, taken aback. Stun delayed a verbal reaction. “Worry whispers, tells her he is tired of tea, loose leaves leaving loose leads.”

The commander knew little about Cole’s unique… ability, but he knew enough that its implications were not comforting. He could delve into the most private portions of a person’s memory at any time – a dangerous and immeasurable invasion of privacy. But as soon as he mentioned tea leaves, Cullen immediately knew whose mind Cole had infiltrated. He should have been angry. Instead, his own mind scrambled to decipher it.

The sounds of nearing footsteps tore his gaze from Cole for a split second; by the time it returned, Cole had disappeared along with Cullen’s memory of him being there at all. Confusion compounding, the commander shook his head as if that might rid him of it. Varric and Bull chatted between themselves as all three made their way back towards Skyhold’s main grounds. Ora sent Cullen a small smile and wave but continued to follow them.

“I-If I may have a word, Inquisitor,” he called, stuttering like a fool. Ora bid the others to go on without her. She jogged up to him.

“Something you need, Commander?”

He hadn’t thought this far. Panic set in, and he blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “Tea.” Andraste preserve him.

The elf’s head tilted in an oddly charming, perplexed manner. _“You_ need _tea?”_

“Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. “Another headache, I'm afraid.”

“Oh.” Ora blinked. “I thought you didn’t—”

“If you are busy, I understand,” he interrupted. “I figured you might be, with as much as I have seen you these past few days.” Well, he hadn’t intended for that to come out. Lovely.

Of course, she hadn’t been busier necessarily, so now Ora wrestled with anxiety. She couldn’t just say:  _I’m not busy; I was just waiting on you._ “Oh, yes, well, you know how things are. It’s a miracle I escaped Josie’s clutches today when I did. But I am free now. Do you want me to—”

“Yes. I mean, do I want you to what?” Maker’s breath, he was actually starting to sweat a little. All the times she came to him, Cullen could hold himself together moderately well. But now with the roles switched, the man realized just how at a loss he was. He may as well be an adolescent again, unbecoming feelings notwithstanding. Maybe he could just unsheath his sword and re-sheath it in his gut. Yes. That sounded ideal.

Holding back her smile morphed into quite the ordeal for the Herald. “Do you want me to make some for you now?”

“If it is not too much trouble, Inquisitor.” He finally managed to speak a sentence without his voice wavering slightly.

“It is never too much trouble,” she reassured him. “All you need to do is ask.”

Cole peered from a distance, glad to know he’d helped.


	4. Restore Order in Wycome (pt 1)

_Every morning, the commander and his lieutenants gathered to briefly discuss the day's plans. Each lieutenant oversaw at least one regiment of soldiers, and they typically exercised a good deal of freedom in their task. Cullen always had the final say, though he rarely vetoed a lieutenant's decision. Respect ran both ways between the commander and his officers; they knew he was strict, but they also knew he was not unreasonable. And the trust he placed in them to do their duties without much intrusion left room for confidence and skill to grow. The short-term risks bloomed eventually into long-term success, and the commander knew – if this pattern persisted – that if something were to happen to him, the Inquisition forces would continue to function smoothly until another was appointed to take his place._

_Some of this the commander borrowed from his time as a templar; the Order's division of power and system of respect was what allowed him to step in after Meredith's downfall. What he would not take from the Order was their lack of a centralized guidance and moral compass. The Chantry – as difficult as it was to admit – had failed. The templars were allowed to function as they pleased in each city and in each Circle, leaving room for gross abuse and misconduct. He would not allow that to happen within the Inquisition._

_As second-in-command, Rylen watched the forces evolve under Cullen's leadership. He had known him since Kirkwall, and to see both the progress of the man and the mission side-by-side left little question as to why Cullen garnered the amount of esteem he did. On top of everything else, the commander harbored an impressive intelligence of not just one but many things. Show him a new sword technique and he could not only replicate it but also apply it flawlessly the next day. His mind and body shared the same amount of endurance. Many younger, taller, or stronger recruits made the mistake of challenging him, and every single one ended up bruised and humiliated. It wasn't until their commander bested the Iron Bull in hand-to-hand combat that they learned provoking Cullen was probably an extremely terrible idea. And that was just friendly sparring._

_Another standard morning meeting came to a close. "Captain Rylen, stay behind, if you would. The rest of you, dismissed." The captain watched his other colleagues leave the commander's office and shut the door behind them._

_Rylen moved from the edge of the room to squarely before Cullen's desk. "Ser?"_

" _What do you know of the Western Approach?"_

_Rylen searched his thoughts briefly. "Not much, to be honest. I've heard it's a harsh place, and hosted a Blight at some point."_

_The commander nodded as Rylen spoke. "You will be receiving a formal report within the week, but yes; it is a desert wasteland affected mostly by the Second Blight. It is also the location of the Inquisition's next major project. And I want you there." Another person may have been dismayed by this news; Rylen, however, was not bothered. His accepting silence signaled the commander to go on. "It is going to take a great deal of coordination to make this work. The trip itself is lengthy, and the conditions are unlike what our forces have endured before. Sister Leliana's scouts are already establishing small outposts, and I have submitted requisitions with the quartermaster for supplies as well as armor better suited for such a climate." Cullen rose from his chair and pushed a book forward. Rylen took it. "This book contains ample information on the Western Approach that you will find useful."_

" _Thank you, ser." The Marcher flipped through the pages. "I will look over it and pass important information to the scribes to distribute amongst my men."_

_A small grin tugged at one end of Cullen's mouth. "A man of my own mind. Best to prepare them as much as is possible. Your forces and the Inquisitor will be departing together when the times comes. Her Worship has business in the Exalted Plains, so you will part ways when you make port in Val Royeaux. From there, you will continue west with our contacts and establish a foothold in the Approach."_

_The captain nodded, closing the book. "A solid plan. Might I inquire as to our goal in the Approach, ser?"_

_Only a split-second of hesitation filled the space between question and answer. "Our contacts have reason to believe the missing Grey Wardens are there, and that they are somehow in-league with Corypheus. We do not know why."_

" _Shit."_

_There was a reason why Rylen could get away with such vulgar language with commander. The captain was about the closest thing Cullen had to a 'friend,' especially out of the Free Marches. Rylen got to know and respect the commander when he was still the Knight-Captain trying to keep things from falling apart in Kirkwall. And Cullen came to appreciate Rylen's strength and support when Starkhaven sent its aid, which in turn earned Rylen one of Cullen's very first invitations to what would become the Inquisition._

_The commander's brow lifted in understanding as he returned to his seat. "Quite. As I mentioned, I will have that report to you as soon as possible, but I felt it necessary to give you ample warning. This will likely be the Inquisition's most complex and most perilous objective to date."_

" _I appreciate it, ser. You need not worry. My men and I will have everything ready upon Her Worship's arrival, I guarantee it."_

" _I am not worried. I have full and utter faith in your abilities."_

_Their unique relationship is what also allowed Rylen to say the following without fear of reprimand. "Not about me, ser." An innocent tease with a waggle of eyebrows set their conversation on vastly different course._

_A hard pause followed. Cullen exhaled through his nose. "What are they saying?"_

_Despite their friendship, the maned man's acknowledgement of the subject left Rylen bewildered. "Just that you fancy her, is all. You know how it is."_

_The expression that swept over Cullen's features was one Rylen was not unfamiliar with, but it might as well have been as rare as a high dragon. A look of soft dejection, the commander's eyes strayed to the papers on his desk. His voice took on similar facets. "Is it that obvious?"_

_Shocked at the easy confession, Rylen did his best to hide it. "Permission to speak freely, ser?"_

" _Of course."_

" _Besides the blushing and stuttering?"_

_Cullen's amber eyes dragged themselves up to Rylen's and met them with resentment – but not for the captain. He could not help the prickling of color inevitably shading his face. "Yes."_

" _Well, from what I've heard 'round the barracks, they've noticed you to be less cranky whenever she is around. They know they can get away with more if she comes by." A sound of displeased comprehension hummed in the commander's throat. He did not expect the captain to continue. "Some of the women say they could tell right after Haven." This resulted in a forlorn groan. Rylen chuckled. "A little romance is good for morale. Don't stress so much."_

_Cullen sent the captain an unenthused glare. "There is no 'romance,' Rylen. I'm the commander and she is the Inquisitor, for Andraste's sake. It would be inappropriate and unprofessional."_

" _Best save those bits for the bedroom, then." Cullen shot him a betrayed and dark look but could not stave off the deepening color of his cheeks. Clearing his throat, Rylen wiped the smirk from his lips. He at least thought it was clever. "This isn't the Order, you know."_

" _I am aware," he answered, tone tinged with mild irritation._

" _So what is the problem? She fancies you too, you know."_

_Rylen found it entertaining. The commander of the Inquisition: as fierce and brave as a bear in battle, and as skittish as a fennec when it came to women. The captain gave him a little leeway, though; this wasn't just any woman. "She—what? No, no, that's… that's not the point, if it even were true. There was a reason fraternization was disallowed. I never disagreed with it. A… relationship would generate a conflict of interest."_

_He shrugged. "Then don't give them a reason." The subsequent stillness led Rylen to believe that Cullen had seen his point, but the lowering of the commander's brow and the hardening of his eyes suggested otherwise._

_Cullen's gloved hands curled into fists on the desktop. "And it's… it's getting worse."_

_Rylen needed no elaboration. The atmosphere suddenly leadened. "Have you spoken to her about it?"_

" _Of course I have."_

" _What did she say?"_

" _It doesn't matter what she said." The words were tight and sharp. Taking a deep breath, Cullen dispelled most of the bite. "What matters is that I am… unstable. I could go mad tomorrow. I could die the day after that. Some days I can barely move, barely think. That is not something I would burden anyone with… least of all her. She is… too important. The Inquisition is too important."_

" _You know, the commander is also an… important person. Sometimes I think you forget. No one would expect a commander to go through something like that alone." The very idea of quitting lyrium chilled Rylen to the bone. He saw what it did to Cullen. He was not so sure he could handle it as well._

_The blond Fereldan waved the sentiment away. "I'm not alone. I am aware of the support shown me and am immensely grateful for it."_

" _You know that's not what I mean."_

" _Do I?" Cullen sent his captain a long stare. "The fate of Thedas rests on her shoulders. I do not wish to add to the load."_

" _Then help her carry it."_

_Rylen's blunt, cool replies grated enormously on Cullen's nerves. How could he possibly think it was that simple? His next words came out as a growl. "What in Andraste's name do you think I'm trying to do? What do you think everyone in the Inquisition is trying to do?"_

_Rylen did not even flinch. "Ser, with all due respect, I did not come here to argue with my superior about his love life, or lack thereof."_

" _As a friend, then."_

" _I would be less inclined to argue with a friend, ser."_

" _Then… then there will be no arguing. I just… Maker's breath. I'm just asking for advice. Begging, really." This was likely the first time Rylen had ever seen Cullen defeated._

" _I'm not really one to give it. I left the Order not long after you did."_

" _I'm not talking about romantic advice, Rylen."_

" _What do you want me to tell you? I've already told you what I think, but it is something you obviously didn't want to hear." Both ex-templars found themselves a bit surprised at Rylen's outburst. But the captain grew tired of the commander's martyr-like attitude towards the whole situation. He would not give him the satisfaction. "Is there anything else you need, Commander?"_

_Cullen seemed to pick up on it. "No. Thank you, Captain. Dismissed."_

 

* * *

 

His armor feels heavier, hotter, hanging off his harried shoulders like hands hoping to pull him into the dirt. Light and sound sharply sink into his head. He wants to hide in the dark and pray it goes away. But he can't. Too much to do, but the doing makes him dizzy. His ears are ringing with the blue bottle's singing; every note he ignores ignites the itch in his skin and it begins to weep.

Just a few hours more he pleads, pretending the sounds of sword striking shield do not shoot up his spine, spiraling through his skull and stabbing his eyes. But the blue bottle bellows its ballad. It is so loud. I shall endure. I must endure.

Shouting at soldiers, always angry, no, that is not right. Hold it in your hand like this. Steady your shield like so. He is trying to help them but he cannot help the hurt. The blood begins to flow from his nose in two steady streams. He doesn't notice, but they do. When he tastes it, touches and tests, then he knows.

Leaving the lieutenant to lead, he plods a private path to the only place he feels safe. But there is where the lyrium lullaby lingers. Piece by piece, he peels the plates from his person. He tears out drawers, papers fly. Shaking, spinning, he stumbles and sits against the stone.

I find the case that croons for its commander. I hold it out to him. I want to help. But he does not trust me. The hidden hurt tells him not to.

"What are you doing?"

"I want to help."

"Put that away."

I do not understand. It will stop the hurting. "But it will help."

"No."

I do not understand. His body burns for the blue bottle. His feelings feel… wrong. "If helping hurts… does hurting help?"

 

* * *

 

"Water helps." Cullen's eyes drifted to the opposite corner of the room where a pitcher sat on a table. They watched the strange, unnatural boy straighten his legs and saunter in that direction. A sigh escaped his lungs when Cole set the lyrium kit aside and poured the liquid into an adjoining tin cup. The commander received it with tremulous hands, and he barely managed to get it to his lips without spilling most of it on his chest and legs. It tasted like metal. He could not tell if that was a result of the blood or the cup.

"It didn't help." The demon boy actually looked concerned. "The thirst still thrives, thorns in the throat. The blue burns them away, but they grow back bigger than before. Without water they might wither. Or you will. You don't know."

He did not enjoy understanding Cole's bizarre ramblings. "Invading my mind certainly does not help, either."

The spirit's cheeks appeared even more gaunt and the circles beneath his eyes even deeper when shadowed by the great rim of his hat. Cullen wagered they probably looked quite similar at that moment. "That is where I find the hurt. I feel it, find it, free it. But you do not think it is wrong. You think I am wrong."

Cullen had no chance to respond. The door across the room burst open, revealing Seeker Cassandra and a few others. Two Cullen recognized as some of the soldiers he'd been training earlier. At the sight of the haggard Cullen, backed against the wall on the floor, collar of his shirt browning with blood, Cassandra's accusative glare landed on Cole. "Get away from him, demon!"

After just a single step forward, the Seeker found herself stopped by a trembling palm raised in her direction. "It is alright, Lady Cassandra. He is… helping." The commander raised his cup of water to prove it.

Cassandra scoffed, not necessarily out of displeasure but mostly out of disbelief. "If… If you say so."

"But I didn't help."

"Then step aside for those who can." The Nevarran warrior marched forward and practically pushed through Cole to Cullen, helping him to his feet. His legs were too weak to carry him to his chair on their own, so she became his crutch. Setting him down, she turned her attention back to the others who had followed her. "You may go." The soldiers' nodded dutifully and did so. The healer Cassandra summoned made his way to the desk and removed a bottle from the bag at his hip. He popped the cork.

"Drink this. It should take the edge off."

Cullen painstakingly wrapped his bloodied fingers around the flask, and with even more concentration brought it to his mouth. After only a few sips, the glass vial crashed to the floor. He leaned over the arm of his chair, vomiting.

"No good." Cassandra sighed ruefully, laying a comforting hand on Cullen's shoulder. Her nose crunched and her forehead wrinkled, eyes clamped shut as she tried to comprehend the thought she now entertained. "Cole… if you really wish to help the commander, go to the kitchens for some crackers. We must settle his stomach first."

"Okay!" And without delay, he disappeared. Cassandra shook her head in dismay.

In the meantime, she poured Cullen another cup of water. "If you are feeling unwell, you should not push yourself. It only makes it worse."

"I had things to do," he retorted obstinately, carefully sipping his water. Luckily, his stomach did not retaliate.

The Seeker would have argued, but Cole reappeared at that second. Much to her disappointment, he did not have crackers. Instead, a small linen pouch dangled from his fingers. "Cole, that is not… what is that?"

"Tea," he answered earnestly.

She tried to put a handle on her rising frustration. "I did not ask for tea."

"The tea will help. It is Ora's."

Cassandra's shoulders straightened in alarm. "You took that from the Inquisitor's quarters?"

"Yes."

"You cannot simply take things that are not yours."

"She would want me to. She knows it helps him."

Her mouth opened, but Cullen cut her off. "Save your energy, Lady Seeker."

"What? Ugh. Very well." She barked at the healer standing uselessly beside her. "You, go fetch a kettle. And something he can eat." He did so with a terrified enthusiasm. "Cole, you know I have little patience for nonsense. Next time, do as you are told."

Ignoring her, the spirit examined the bag curiously as Cassandra locked one door and secured the other. "Leaves lifted lovingly from the stalk, happy to heal for the hands that harvest them. Soft, subtle, soothing, reminds him of her—"

"That is enough, Cole." Cullen interrupted weakly though authoritatively, clearing his throat. "Thank you."

A strange look painted the boy's face as he came to a conclusion in his mind. "I'm sorry." Setting the pouch on the desk, Cole lowered his head and again vanished without a trace.

Cassandra's exhalation carried hints of frustration. "I do not think I will ever grow accustomed to his presence. Half the time I do not even know of what he speaks."

"Including this time, I gather." Cullen rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Might as well ask me now, while I am weak."

"What is with this tea business?"

"The Inquisitor makes it when she knows I do not feel well."

One of her thin, dark eyebrows quirked upward. "I… see."

"It's not as strong as a draught. It settles my stomach and gradually rids my headaches."

"Perhaps you should ask her for some, if it helps you so."

"That would be the wise thing to do, yes."

"So why have you not?"

"It's not as simple as you think. I'd rather leave it to her."

"Well for your sake perhaps you should learn."

"It seems I don't have much choice." The handle of the door jiggled as someone on the other side struggled to open it. Cassandra intervened, and the healer with a steaming kettle and a plate of toasted bread entered, winded and red-faced underneath his whiskers. The Seeker thanked the man and sent him on his way, much to his relief.

"Would you like me to do it?"

"No. I can manage." With a concerted effort on his part, Cullen grabbed the handle of the kettle and lifted it no more than an inch from the desktop and struggled to maintain even that altitude. "Andraste preserve me."

"Here." Cassandra took the kettle from his grasp without hesitation, pouring the hot water into his cup. Cullen pried open the drawstring pouch. Three pinches later, tea leaves danced on the surface of the water, gradually expanding and settling. "Now what?"

"We wait."

"Eat this, then." She shoved the plate of toast before him.

Unaffected by the brusque gesture, he thanked her and dragged the plate closer to him. He nibbled warily, eyes transfixed on the swirling leaves. Cassandra leaned against the desk, arms folded at her chest. After a minute or two, Cullen finally took a sip and grimaced.

"Too hot?"

"No, no. It tastes as it should. Awful." He set it back down, already feeling relieved. All air escaped his lungs as he slumped back into his seat.

"It smells like the forest after a light rain."

He cracked one eye open. "Very poetic of you, Lady Cassandra."

"You mock me."

"No. I agree." Soft, subtle, soothing. His eyelid fell back down languidly as he took a deep breath. "You are free to go, Lady Cassandra. I will be all right."

She seemed reluctant, but she knew what his suggestion implied. "Rest, Commander. I will have someone bring you broth for supper."

"Thank you."

Pushing off the desk, the Nevarran left without another word. Cullen let the silence surround him like water, hoping it would lift all the pressure from his limbs and drown out the noise in his head. When the tea was nearly gone, his hopes finally seemed to manifest. Everything had calmed. Random muscle spasms and waves of nausea came over him every once in a while, but it was nothing compared to before.

Legs creaking, arms straining, he lifted himself from his chair and approached the ladder leading to his loft. The wash basin his destination, each rung an ordeal, Cullen fought for breath by the time he got to it. The water turned murky almost instantly. Rubbing his eyes, he glared into the cloudiness as if it had something to say. The commander pulled the shirt from his body and used it to dry his face. When he looked back down at it, splotches of blood and vomit at the collar, he let it fall listlessly to the wooden floorboards. Cullen buried his face in his hands, jaw clenched until it cramped.

His fingers gradually dug deeper and harder into his face. He barely breathed. The pain had been worse, but was it the worst? The question tied his stomach in knots.

Maker, he was afraid.

He eventually brought his hands before him, studying them for reasons even he did not know. He persisted as his legs turned of their own accord to his bed, never once looking away from his hands. Before laying, he dropped to his knees and kneeled. He watched how neatly his hands came together. He prayed.

"O Maker, hear my cry:  
Guide me through the blackest nights  
Steel my heart against the temptations of the wicked  
Make me to rest in the warmest places.

O Creator, see me kneel:  
For I walk only where You would bid me  
Stand only in places You have blessed  
Sing only the words You place in my throat

My Maker, know my heart  
Take from me a life of sorrow  
Lift me from a world of pain  
Judge me worthy of Your endless pride

My Creator, judge me whole:  
Find me well within Your grace  
Touch me with fire that I be cleansed  
Tell me I have sung to Your approval

O Maker, hear my cry:  
Seat me by Your side in death  
Make me one within Your glory  
And let the world once more see Your favor

For You are the fire at the heart of the world  
And comfort is only Yours to give."

He awoke to the closing of his office door. A red-orange light filtered through the hole in his ceiling: sunset. He did not move despite it. For a moment, he felt as if he could not. His body seemed to resonate on the same frequency as everything around him. He had to focus on feeling: the comfort of the sheets, the warmth of the sun, the chill of the breeze. He had to pick it all apart and separate himself.

He sat up. Again, he stared at the hands in his lap. He blinked slowly, thoughtfully. Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Cullen lowered his feet to the wooden boards beneath them.

Descending, he found a tray with a bowl of broth, as Cassandra had promised, accompanied by a stack of letters. Drinking from the bowl with one hand and sifting through the documents with the other, one caught his eye.

 

* * *

 

While the Inquisitor found herself rather delayed in the Exalted Plains, Rylen and his forces more than established a foothold in the Western Approach. With Griffon Wing Keep secured, water sources located and utilized, and researchers working to dispel the noxious gases in some areas of the desert, things were so far going smoothly, relatively speaking. Hawke and Alistair came and went as they conducted their investigations while helping thin the bandit and wildlife threat at the same time. With everything set against them – from blistering heat to darkspawn – the Inquisition was well on its way to stabilizing the region.

By the time the Inquisitor arrived with her companions, she added her own weight to the cause. Within two weeks she dealt with the dragon that sometimes flew menacingly overhead and curbed the appearance of darkspawn with her Warden ally. Rylen found himself in awe at her pace as well as her efficacy; the unsuspecting Dalish elf carried herself with a sort of elegant ferocity, hidden behind bright eyes and an honest smile, that he did not think she was even aware she possessed. Her metamorphosis was indeed enthralling; no wonder Cullen found himself smitten with her.

They often met in the mornings for debriefings, and this particular morning he handed her a stack of correspondences from Skyhold. Rummaging through them, eyes skimming, the elf halted suddenly at the sight of one specifically.

_I pray this finds you well, Inquisitor. I thought you would want to see this as soon as possible and so have sent it at the earliest convenience. I am told that the agent known as Jester will remain in Wycome and continues to monitor the situation. The implication of red lyrium is troubling, but Lady Josephine, Sister Leliana, and I all stand ready should any new developments arise. I hope this puts your mind at ease so that you may focus on the task at hand. The Western Approach is a harsh place, as I'm sure you know. Should you have further inquiries or concerns, it goes without saying that Rylen will assist you._

_On a more frivolous note, I've somehow managed to make the tea taste worse when I brew it. I did not think it was possible._

_Maker watch over you.  
_ _Cullen_

The captain watched her read the letter from the corner of his eye, and it amused him how her face morphed from one of tired seriousness to tired delight. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, his friend might give the whole thing a chance.

He did not expect the contentment to melt from her face so quickly. He also did not expect her eyes to dart in his direction, swirling with concern.

"Feel free to not answer," she began cautiously, taking a few steps in his direction, "but you work closely with Cull—the commander. How… How has he been? Whenever I ask he always says the same."

"'I shall endure,' right?"

She let out a laugh of relief mixed with disappointment. "Yes. I only ask because what he has written here gives me cause for concern. But perhaps I am overthinking things." The commander hated the taste of the tea, so his only reasons for drinking it would be for its medicinal effects, she gathered. For him to do so of his own volition sent up a red flag in Ora's mind.

Rylen found himself a tad conflicted. She was the Inquisitor, she was personally worried about Cullen, but he did not want to divulge information the commander himself was not willing to reveal. He sighed. "Are you familiar with the rest of the verse?"

"Verse?"

"Yes. It is from the Canticle of Trials.

Maker, though the darkness comes upon me,  
I shall embrace the light. I shall weather the storm.  
I shall endure.  
What you have created, no one can tear asunder."

At first, Rylen was unsure if, as a member of the Dalish, the Inquisitor would understand what he was trying to say. But the grim and troubled gleam in her eyes turned the feeling to certainty.

"Thank you, Rylen," she said after a pause, her voice a soft, low hum.

 

* * *

 

The full might of the Inquisition army descended into the desert of the Western Approach, leveling dunes with sheer volume and determination. The merciless sun and sandstorms did their best to hinder their advance, but nothing could be enough to hamper their progress. The major undertaking that had been re-outfitting the fighting men and women paid off in a big way; though insufferable as traversing the expanses of sand had been, it could have been much, much worse. In place of their typical uniform was an armor of ingenious design, utilizing more mail than plates. The light colors chosen did not absorb the sun's heat as readily as darker hues, and boots reached high enough to the knee that sand rarely found its way in them.

The commander's own bearskin mantle had been replaced by a more intricate version of the other soldiers' scarves, wrapping multiple times atop his armored shoulders and providing both a hood and mask against the whipping sands and fierce rays of the sun. The skillfully embroidered ends flapped behind him as he led them further west until Inquisition insignias and flags began to appear. After a long and arduous march, Griffon Wing Keep emerged from below the horizon, and they all breathed a collective sigh of relief.

As a bulk of the forces set up camp around the keep itself, Cullen and most of the other officers rode directly through the gates to be greeted by those within. Rylen gave them a tour and updated them all on progress made and still being made. The Inquisitor and her team at that moment were out tying up loose ends and would be back by sundown.

At that point, it had been over three months since Ora had left Skyhold for the Exalted Plains, and to say Cullen was anxious would be an understatement. He had grown used to her absence, but as soon as the reality set in that she would be near him in a matter of hours, his heart hammered against his ribcage. It felt longer than it had been. Clapping and cheering started to sound outside the keep in the late afternoon as the Inquisitor's party filed down the path through the giant campground to the front gates.

"Maker preserve me," the commander muttered under his breath without much intention. A hand settling on his shoulder nearly made him jump. Rylen smiled at him supportively.

"Why don't you go wait in her office?" he offered with subtle amusement lining his voice. "Pretend to be doing something. I'll let her know." He was only half joking. Cullen scowled but turned and did just that. It took all Rylen had not to burst out laughing.

Ora's office was less that and more her sleeping quarters separated by a length of thick curtain. Opposite a glassless opening in the stonework sat a small table, topped with a tattered runner, documents, a quill, an inkwell, and an oil lamp. Rylen's latest report tucked under his arm, the commander nestled himself by the window, using the light of the sun to read, eyes running over sentences but never absorbing the words. When the Inquisitor walked in, he meant to speak up, to alert her to his presence. But the breath caught in his throat.

She was a mess. Absolutely covered in blood (not her own, he hoped), dirt, sweat, and sand, Ora set her staff against the wall, donning a set of armor he did not recognize. It looked distinctly elven, with hefty pauldrons, mail sleeves, and fingerless greaves. Soiled as it was, though, he did not know for sure. It just was certainly not Inquisition issue. Not that it mattered. Anyone else seeing her in such a state would probably find themselves repulsed, but for the commander, he was anything but. And that confused him.

Her hazel eyes detected him almost immediately. Was he just imagining the way her face seemed to brighten? "Cullen!" Was he just imagining how happily his name rolled off her tongue? "It is good to see you! How are you?"

He did not realize he was beaming. "I am well, Inquisitor."

"I am glad to hear it." Ora peeled off her gauntlets and set them on the table. "The trip here is nothing short of excruciating. I can't even imagine making it with an entire army." Her optimism paired with her gruesome appearance made for quite a sight.

"It, ah… was an ordeal, to be sure. H-How are you?" He kicked himself for taking so long to ask.

"Disgusting, as you can see." Ora gestured to herself in good humor.

"A woman who does what needs to be done is never disgusting, Your Worship. You wear it well."

The elf sucked in her lips to suppress an amused grin, hands resting on her hips. Neither of them could maintain a steady gaze. "Thank you." Ora steeled herself and ousted the momentary lull settling between them. "Is there something you need, Commander? Or are you just here to compliment me?"

Though a lighthearted tease, it was bold for Ora, and it left her mouth before she could really choose otherwise. Dorian must be rubbing off on her. It caught Cullen off-guard as well, and he was lucky enough to have the sun shining from behind to shadow his face. Nevertheless, he rubbed the back of his neck and cleared his throat, Adam's apple jumping with a hard swallow. "No," he managed airly, half-formed bashful chuckles mixed in. "A few matters need attending, though I may bring them to you later if you wish to get cleaned up."

"That would be ideal, if that is alright with you."

"Of course." Cullen headed towards the exit. He stopped short of the threshold. "Oh, I should just leave this with you." Reaching into the folds of fabric on his armor, Cullen extracted an envelope and a crude burlap bag tied with twine. He held it out to her. "Sister Leliana managed to locate the Hero of Ferelden. She sent this back for you."

"For me?" Ora's wide eyes jumped from the package to Cullen's face multiple times as if she did not believe him. She took it with an odd sort of innocent reverence. "Thank you."

"I will find you later, then."

Ora still gazed down at the items in her hands. "Yes." She snapped out of her daze and sent him a grateful smile. "Find me later."

 

* * *

 

Ora bathed, dressed, and met everyone for supper as the sun struggled to stay in the sky. It felt so nice to have everyone together again, especially those she had to leave behind. Solas was still missing, however; he needed time after what happened to his friend in the Exalted Plains. She could not fathom what it would be like to lose a good friend, and as she sat in a circle of them, she hoped with all her heart he was well. Hawke and Varric had most of the gathering in uproarious laughter; Alistair, she assumed, wanted some time to be alone after he received the letter the Hero had written for him. He had reacted rather emotionally, and Ora had left him quicker than she'd have liked – mostly so he would not notice her own tears pooling in her eyes.

In hopes of assuaging Bull's disappointment in being absent for her latest dragon encounter, she offered him a gift of one of its teeth, soon to learn a cultural aspect of qunari culture that left her embarrassed and the object of everyone's hilarity for the next twenty minutes afterward. Sera nearly died of asphyxiation from laughing too hard at her notion that Iron Bull would "break her in half."

Perhaps the most shocking aspect of the dinner was that Madame de Fer actually joined them – though still apart from the main group, she made eating rations as graceful as one ever could and seemed to listen in on the discussion. She spoke up after this particular incident.

"Nothing against you, Bull dear, but if you are to be bound to anyone, darling, it should be someone with power and reputation. Someone who will  _elevate_  you."

"Pffbt, bunch of piss, that."

Dorian twirled one end of his moustache, eyes gleaming and mouth crooked in a grin. "For once I am inclined to agree with Sera, Vivienne, though I am curious to learn what you think our Ora here could possibly gain from such an arrangement. She is, after all, the Inquisitor."

"She could gain all manners of things, my dear. It depends on what she needs. Gold? A vote? Influence? Recognition? Maker knows the Inquisition still has room to grow."

"Yeah, but no prissy noble arsehole will want to marry. She's too elfy. And magic."

"Who said anything about  _marry_ , dear?"

"Eck, so you just mean bits on bits for stuff that doesn't matter? No, if it matters then it shouldn't  _matter._ You want it to matter." Everyone sent Sera a collection of puzzled glances. She did not notice and continued shoveling food into her mouth.

Varric noticed Ora's horrified expression and butted in. "How about we change the subject?"

 

* * *

 

Cullen approached Ora after mealtime. As soon as night fell, the two of them plus Alistair and Hawke left the keep so that he may take a look at Adamant Fortress himself. The moon shone bright enough that evening to give off ample light, and heading out at such an hour allowed them to bypass the sun's heat and the heightened likelihood of detection. Though the reports were detailed and Leliana had found blueprints of the bastion, he wanted to get a good idea, in person, of what they would be dealing with in a matter of days.

Galloping most of the way, the group slowed as they neared a safe yet informative distance.

"I got your note." The Inquisitor and the commander trailed behind the Champion and the Warden. It took Cullen a few seconds to notice that Ora was indeed speaking to him.

"Oh?" was all he managed.

"Yes. I was a bit worried."

"Why?"

"You? Making tea on your own? Were you feeling alright?" She undoubtedly meant the question to be humorous, but it vibrated with an underlying apprehension.

Cullen failed to pick up on it. "Seeing as I continued to try, I must not have been."

Ora let out a series of chuckles. "I will find a tea you like, I promise. That way you won't have to suffer so."

The commander shifted in his saddle, adjusting the reins in his grasp, leather squelching against leather. "No need to trouble yourself on my account. Suffering suits me just fine."

"Don't say that."

"No use wasting your breath, Ora. He's always been that way, since Kirkwall." Hawke had since drifted back to them, inserting herself into their bout of banter. Being trapped in the Approach together, the two mages grew to get along quite well. Hawke's antics were as infectious as Sera's – though perhaps not nearly as bizarre – and the jovial sarcasm she brought to almost any situation could be both refreshing and shocking. Ora almost felt as if she had to learn another language to wade through all of the sarcastic comments consistently being thrown around by Marian and Alistair during that time. Cullen was not so well-equipped, regardless of the fact that he worked with Hawke in the past. Hawke knew he had grown complacent with people actually taking him seriously and exploited that to her advantage.

"And you were always terrible at minding your own business," he retorted right on cue. Just like old times.

"Oh yeah? If I'd minded my business, you'd likely be dead!"

The four inevitably changed places in their formation. Alistair and Ora now rode side-by-side and sent each other knowing glances.

Cullen took the bait as he had so many times before. "Yes, you 'saved' my life and then went on to make it a thousand times worse."

Hawke set her fists on her hips and scrunched her face, bobbing from side to side as if to emulate a strutting, stuck-up templar. "Pesky mages, always making your life difficult." She closed in on the commander and leaned towards him. "Maybe you should have just taken me to the Circle then,  _like you were supposed to_."

That did not go over well. He raised his voice higher than he intended. "You know very well that—" He stopped. What was this? Was Cullen actually realizing what Hawke was doing? "You have not changed a bit." That seemed to be the case.

The feat failed to impress her. "I could name  _one_ thing that's changed about you."

"Don't."

" _Curly."_  She sneered playfully. He sent her a death glare. "Oh, stop it, you know I'm only messing with you. You're my favorite templar! Want to know why? Because you were the  _worst_  templar."

"Maker's breath."

Ora piped up, much to everyone's astonishment. "Sounds like you should thank Cullen then, Hawke."

The Champion's brow dropped, eyes moving from side to side. "What?"

"Can't very well be a Champion from a Circle now, can you? Him being the  _worst_  templar may have been the best thing to happen to you."

Cullen cantered past her with the most smug shit-eating grin ever conceived by a mortal man, again situating himself beside the Inquisitor.

"Why are you smirking? She still said you were the worst." Where was Varric when she needed him?

The formation had completely reversed now: Cullen and Ora rode ahead while an entertained Alistair and an outdone Hawke trailed behind. The elf met the commander's appreciative smirk with a supportive grin of her own. "I suppose I am on that list of pesky mages. Making your life difficult is a remarkable skill of mine."

He cocked a single brow. The pride from his recent victory against Hawke fueled his current lofty attitude. "The only lives you make difficult are the Venatori. Also demons, dragons, bandits, Red Templars…"

She cut him off before he could go on, no less flattered, however. "I will take that as a compliment."

"I do not see how it could be considered anything but."

"You may want to reconsider your response." Cullen followed Ora's pointed finger to see Adamant emerge over a dune, its black walls shining dully in the moonlight. It was as impressive as it was imposing, its sharp architecture contrasting the rolling hills of sand surrounding it but otherwise fitting in with the foreboding chasm it guarded. The four came to a halt, their horses stamping uncomfortably.

"There is nothing to reconsider." Cullen calmingly patted his stallion's muscular neck before he dismounted; Hawke and Alistair followed suit. The commander held out his hand to Ora, helping her down from her steed. "I shall just add Grey Wardens to your growing list."

His words came out much warmer than she anticipated, much softer, though somehow amplified by his unusually close proximity. It was easy enough to blame the goosebumps on the cool desert night, but the voices in her mind all screamed, wondering if he had actually done that on purpose. No one is suave and charming accidentally, especially the assertive yet somehow awkward commander.

"Uhm, can we change that item to  _some_  Wardens, perhaps?" Alistair mosied past them. "Because, well, you know."

Creators bless that man for pulling her out of that stupor. She trailed him, Cullen and Hawke doing the same. "You're on an entirely different list, Alistair. Not to worry."

"Ooh, which one?"

"The 'My Favorite Wardens Named Alistair List,' of course." They all stopped just before reaching the peak of a hill. The commander produced a spyglass and began his silent observation.

"I have my own  _list?_  I really am your favorite."

That ushered a good few laughs from the Inquisitor. "Of course you are! The Hero is a lucky woman."

Now, Hawke was glaring a hole into the commander's back, scouring her mind for something – anything – to knock him back down a few notches. She had noticed the whole suspect exchange between him and Ora when she'd gotten down from her horse, but she boiled that down to mere cheesy, archaic chivalry; however, when Cullen tore his attention from the fortress with an expression of what seemed to be alarm at the Inquisitor's sarcasm – which he obviously did not pick up – she knew she had something. Perhaps Varric could confirm it for her.

"Funny, I tell her that all the time. Maybe now she'll believe me."

"Perhaps we should focus on the fortress for the time being." Or maybe she wouldn't need Varric after all.

"Yes. Definitely. Fate of the world and all that. Feels oddly familiar… I wonder why. Oh,  _right_."


	5. Restore Order in Wycome (pt 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter I explore the events of the siege of Adamant Fortress, the subsequent journey into the Fade, and the aftereffects. I thought this part of the game was pretty tame, especially in regards to the Fade. I tweaked things a bit to reflect a much darker and more horrific experience (at least for Ora), because for spiders to show up as the Inquisitor's *worst* fear never made any sense to me. Hopefully I didn't fail entirely.

Possessed blood mages and demons. Cullen’s favorite.

The infiltration was an overwhelming success, and as the Inquisitor fought her way along the battlements, a majority of their forces dedicated their time to keeping the enemies occupied on the lower levels. That included the commander. The air in the fortress felt stale and foul in his lungs, a familiar taste and smell, a combination so concentrated that the last time he remembered it being so overpowering it haunted him in his dreams for a decade.

But this time, he was not alone, and he was on the offensive rather than the defensive. He could fight. He knew what was real and what was not. He could trust his senses and those around him, men and women he had trained, men and women he had fought beside before. The Champion of Kirkwall and Ser Alistair were there, remnants of his stained and difficult past, though nevertheless a strange comfort to him. Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden had rescued him. Hawke exposed Meredith; without that, he may have never stood up against his Knight-Commander, and Cassandra may have never come to him with her proposition. They made things right all those years ago. Now, it was his turn – the Inquisition’s turn – to do the same.

All these people fighting and bleeding signaled change and change for the better. He was a changed man, and he feared change less than he ever had.

But some things took time to change. And as the stalwart commander cut down demon after demon with such controlled and calculated ferocity, that became more and more apparent.

An abomination caught him off-guard. Reflex told him to outstretch a hand and purge its power, but instead of that familiar swell of energy, there was nothing except what felt like dry friction in his veins, blood replaced by sand and shattered glass, a dull dagger pushing its way through muscle. Claws bore down on him with enough force to dent his shield, hammering away as Cullen’s knees brought him closer to the ground. He knew how to handle this situation. He knew how to recover and gain the upper hand. All of these things he knew and more – if only his body would do them.

His own adrenaline turned on him, mutated the alarm into panic, his templar senses still honed enough to be choked by the corrupted magic but not strong enough to protect him from it. He could have sworn these walls were growing more and more familiar. Everything was going fast and he was going slow, the doubt and the darkness creeping at the edges of his mind. Suddenly he was young and just as abruptly he was himself again, over and over it switched back and forth until he couldn’t tell and didn’t know. The only thing he knew for sure was the demon’s savage violence as he barely parried, barely blocked. They would taunt him and torture him as they had before.

Before? If it was not _then,_ then when was _now?_

It didn’t matter. They would capture him and torment him and attempt to break him with all of their tricks and lies and claws that could cut cleanly through his throat because he’d seen it happen to the others. Would he be able to withstand it a second time? Would they possess him and defile him and make him something neither the Maker nor Andraste could bear to set eyes upon and forgive?

“Commander!” It sounded as if his water clogged his ears. “Get that thing off him!”

In an instant, a soldier bashed the demon with as much force as a clap of thunder, sending the monster barreling along the floor. Arrows whistled from above, dotting its infernal, misshapen body with projectiles as the soldier from before impaled it with his sword. It screeched and writhed as black, curdled blood sputtered onto the stone before twitching into motionlessness.

Someone was helping him up. Cullen squinted, his eyes adjusting as if he had just been in the dark and thrust into the light, trying to make out a face.

“Pull yourself together, Commander!” he heard him say. Commander. That was him. Commander of what? He was never a Knight-Commander. No. That emblem.

_The Inquisition._

Everything rushed back to him with the intensity of an avalanche. Stiffening, straightening, Cullen’s body sought to catch up with his mind.

“Are you alright?” Rylen.

“I’m fine.” The firm statement emerged amid onerous breaths, juxtaposed against beads of sweat gliding along the commander’s brow. Eyes still wide, skin still pale, Cullen regained hasty composure through sheer will alone. He pushed off Rylen, gravity working against him, but he fought. “We must keep moving!”

 

* * *

 

For a moment, her left hand hovered shakily in the air; the tear in the Veil still offered a window into the scene she had left behind. For just a moment, she watched and waited, hoping that, somehow, Hawke would shake the behemoth currently enveloping her and find her way out.

But that was not to be the case.

As tendrils and pincers devoured the Champion of Kirkwall, the mark on Ora’s hand crackled to life and began to sew the rift shut. Over the otherworldly hum of magic rose Ora’s steady, strained, anguished scream.

The closed rift left a scar in the air, nothing more than a clear distortion like a length of light silk or the tendril of a jellyfish. Ora’s lungs labored, every muscle in her body twitching. The buzzing in her ears obscured the sounds of battle dying around her. Inquisition soldiers and Grey Wardens alike cut down the last of the demons to leak through.

Ringing. Mind swimming. She could not feel the ground beneath her aching feet.

Her back still turned, shoulders heaving with ragged breaths, she heard the tentative approach of footsteps in the thick of the following silence.

“Where’s Hawke?”

The tears in her eyes when she looked to him answered the question. She choked on a sob. Her injured arm futilely reached out to Varric as he marched away, and she was determined to give chase. Limping, stumbling, she started to break. Cassandra rushed to her side.

“Not here, Ora,” she said as she shielded Ora’s grief with her body, helping her back to her feet. “Not here.” She tried. Bloodied, trembling, hyperventilating, she delved as deep into herself as she could.

_Vir assan. Vir bor’assan. Vir adahlen. Vir assan. Vir bor’assan. Vir adahlen. Vir assan, vir bor’assan, vir adahlen. Vir assan vir bor’assan vir adahlen. Vir assan vir bor’assan vir adahlen. Virassanvirbor’assanviradahlen. Virassanvirbor’assanviradahlen. Virassanvirbor’assanviradahlen._

A coldness crept over her.

 

* * *

 

Bodies arranged in neat lines.

 

* * *

 

No one can find Varric.

 

* * *

 

She tried to be herself again but then the nightmares came.

 

* * *

 

It had been nearly four days since the fall of Adamant. Inquisition forces had barely paused within that time. Between tending the wounded, gathering the dead, and combing the fortress for stray demons, blood mages, and – if lucky – clues as to Corypheus’ next move, few of them had time for rest. With tattered Grey Wardens now under their wing, resources were spread thin. This was the first time Cullen had been able to sit down for more than a few minutes.

Lantern light tinted the interior of his tent orange as it fought off the dusk. Voices outside died down to murmurs with the occasionally raucous laugh or shout. Cassandra stood before him, the flickering flame draping shadows along every angle of her sharp face and deepening the circles beneath both of their eyes. She held out a stack of parchment. “Here. Ora asked that I draw up a preliminary report.” Cullen’s gloved hand received it. “She tells me she will have the final portion written and to you soon.”

“Thank you. I will take a look at it and send it off to Skyhold.” The commander casually flipped through a few pages, amber eyes snagging on random yet troubling words scattered throughout the report. “How are you holding up?” He set it down and looked to her.

“Well enough. You?”

“Well enough,” he repeated, though the words rode out on a sigh. Cassandra nodded in understanding. Neither of them were one to complain. It was one of the many things they had in common. “Things are going well, all things considered. Ser Alistair and the Wardens have been nothing but compliant and helpful. They seem eager for a chance at atonement.”

“As they should be,” she rebutted with just a hint of anger. “They have caused enough problems.”

“I take it you disagree with the Inquisitor’s decision, then.”

“Yes. The Wardens are a liability.”

“Be that as it may, they are formidable warriors with special talent. If we are careful enough, I think they will be valuable allies.” For Cullen, the Grey Wardens fell into a similar category as the Templar Order: flawed but with noble cause. Both had been misused and misunderstood, but their mistakes and vulnerabilities did not automatically rule them defunct. They still had much to offer.

“I hope you are right. Though Ser Alistair seems a bit too flippant to lead the remaining Grey Wardens, having helped slay an Archdemon or not. I only hope he has inherited some shred of Maric’s leadership abilities.”

“He is a good and capable man, Lady Cassandra, even if a bit… droll. We have spoken at length. You needn’t worry about him.”

“I will take your word for it.”

“Good. And now that we’ve established contact with the Hero of Ferelden, we can expect her support when available as well.” The relationship between Ser Alistair and the Hero of Ferelden did not hurt either.

Cassandra exhaled through her nose, conceding to Cullen’s logic ever so slightly. “I suppose.” The edge of Cullen’s mouth quirked into a small grin at the small victory. “I am going to try to get some sleep. I suggest you do the same, while you can.” The commander waved the report in the air, signalling that would not be the case. “Very well.” The Seeker turned and headed for the exit. “I will see you in the morning.”

The ex-templar massaged his temples, chest rising and falling with a deep breath. In truth, he could and should leave the report for the morning after a bit of rest; but an almost morbid curiosity nibbled at his mind. He had a vague idea of what transpired in the Fade from conversations had with Cassandra; the Inquisitor remained silent about most of the ordeal – particularly the fate of Hawke. Her death hit a sensitive spot; not only was a superb ally lost, but also – dare he say? – a friend. Varric had been missing since the siege ended, and Cole with him. Cullen could imagine why the spirit boy followed; if he were to believe in Cole’s senses, then Varric’s pain must have drawn the boy like a moth to the moon. In his head, the words rang the same (but, at the same time, entirely differently) as they had various times before: _Hawke… what have you done this time?_

The commander’s brass gaze drifted to the report.

_… the Inquisitor opened a rift, and we fell physically into the Fade, Maker forgive us…_

_… approached by the apparition of Divine Justinia in the demon’s lair, who guided us through…_

_… each of us faced with our greatest fears put into form, the demon taunted us mercilessly, some of us to the point of breaking…_

_… recovered the Herald’s stolen memories of the Divine’s last moments and the cause of the explosion, solving the mystery of her involvement…_

_… the demon was larger than anything I have ever seen, having fed off of the fear of the world for centuries, loyal to Corypheus merely for his hand in creating the Blight and supplying the monster with terror… the spirit of Divine Justinia called it the Nightmare you forget upon waking… and Erimond was to unleash it upon the world…_

And all at once, the commander felt his drowsiness evaporate.

How many nights had he spent unknowingly nourishing this monstrosity?

He shook the notion from his head. It did not matter.

_… got separated at the rift… only the Inquisitor and Ser Alistair returned, with Hawke presumably giving her life for the cause…_

Cullen laid the report to rest on his desk. For a long while, he stared into nothing, thoughts buzzing frantically behind his eyes. The images conjured by the words were still muddled despite the Seeker’s tight descriptions; though he had seen and experienced a lot, the commander nevertheless found difficulty in imagining the unbridled chaos put on paper before him – some details more so than others. In his time as a templar, Cullen had heard his share of descriptions of the Fade from the Circle mages. Often they would paint a picture of an uncanny emptiness dotted with familiarities arranged in sometimes unfamiliar ways, as if reality was the Fade’s second language. Then, of course, there were the demons.

But _this_ part of the Fade, and _this_ demon… it was almost incomprehensible.

Almost. Commander Cullen knew better than most of scathing abuse at the hands of demons, tormented with what hurt the most. It would explain why even the Seeker appeared shaken. And it would also explain the Inquisitor’s thousand yard stare.

For them to experience that… Cullen’s head descended into the cradle of his palms, the creases in his forehead deepening. He remained like that for a good few silent minutes, hoping the quiet would fill him. The stillness seeped into his skin little by little. Calm, steady, the commander lifted his face from his hands and leaned back into his chair. Ten years. Ten years it took for his wounds to scar over; the hate and anger he’d used to previously bandage them were harshly ripped off in Kirkwall. He may have built up a higher tolerance to fear’s poison; but poison was still poison. Not everyone was as suited as he against it.

And yet, even _he_ faltered at Adamant that day, haunted by that decade-long pain. That slumbering sickness lying dormant in his mind, waiting until conditions were just right to resurface. The fact that he had to be rescued, once again, by those around him – by Rylen – caused his blood to boil. He was the _commander_. The bouts of lyrium withdrawal were bad enough, but could he count on this sort of thing happening when he faced demons on the battlefield?

He would tell Cassandra about it another day. Cullen was already partially convinced that he was gradually, shamefully, becoming unfit to command; this development solidified the notion.

For now, he would work. He would work and he would serve, as he promised and as he pleased. There was no place for his introspections and insecurities in managing an army. He was their commander. And while he could remain so, Cullen would continue to put his entire heart and soul into the endeavor. He could not afford to not do so. The world couldn’t, either.

 

* * *

 

He was spreading out a map on the table when she entered. Looking up, Cullen stabbed one corner of the parchment with a small dagger as a small grin flickered across his lips.

“Good morning, Inquisitor,” he welcomed, setting other nearby objects on the other remaining corners. He honestly hadn’t expected to see her so early; over the past week, Ora’s schedule varied wildly. More often than not, however, she was not out and about until later in the morning. The deep purple circles beneath her eyes gave clues as to why. When she did wake, however, the full amount of her energy poured into the relief effort – so much so that she had been moved from the healers’ tents after falling asleep on several occasions.

The skin on Ora’s face reluctantly stretched to accommodate a forced smile. “Good morning, Commander.”

He withheld a sigh. The Inquisitor’s multiple wounds had long been tended as well as they could, but the bruises were only just beginning to fade to their sickly yellows and greens. Her atypical pallid complexion accentuated these details. The smaller cuts and scrapes remained visible nevertheless. The sheer number of scratches – as if from fingernails or small claws – scabbing across her face still unsettled him as it had when he first laid eyes on her after the siege. She did not look she came from a battle – it looked more like she had barely survived a natural disaster.

“I wanted,” he went on, smoothing out the map, “to talk about the return to Skyhold.”

“Of course,” she replied, her voice a bit higher and more enthusiastic than her greeting. But it was far too easy to detect the forced falseness in her tone. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Yes. I was thinking it would be best to trickle back to Skyhold, that way it is easier for all parties involved.”

A hesitation filled with thoughtfulness. “Are you certain? Smaller contingents might make easier targets.”

Head tilting, nodding, Cullen considered her point. “We have a number of enemies, Inquisitor, but if I may say, after our success here, I doubt many would be willing to instigate.” Not smug, only matter-of-fact, Cullen crossed his arms at his chest.

“I am sure Josephine made the news travel quickly.”

“Of course. But gossip, in this case, works to our advantage. For once.” Ora snorted. Cullen gestured her to come closer, his finger pointing at their location on the map sprawled on the tabletop. “You, your companions, the Chargers, a small company of soldiers, and I will be the first to depart. We will head off the convoy transporting Magister Erimond, as well as the other convoys transporting the wounded and the deceased. I would personally like to make sure everything is prepared for their arrival. Rylen will manage the rest from this end.” She nodded in comprehension. “We will march east to the Imperial Highway, taking it north to Val Royeaux where I will have Josephine arrange for some ships.” Ora’s glossy eyes followed Cullen’s index finger along their intended path. “From there, we sail to Jader and then again march to Skyhold.”

“A solid plan as always, Commander.” Her compliment was a shade from monotone. “Shall I inform the others?”

“Leave that to me. I merely wanted your seal of approval before setting anything into motion.”

“Ah. Well, you certainly have it,” she replied on an exhalation. “Is there anything else?”

Cullen’s jaw opened to let loose the words he’d prepared, but they huddled back instead. He coaxed them out with a gentle clear of his throat. “I was hoping we could discuss Cassandra’s report.”

This ushered a reaction from Ora – a genuine one. But it was one of shock and what looked like fear. Cullen blinked. “I-I’m sorry, I will have the rest of that report to you soon.”

“No, no,” he interjected, “that’s not what I meant.”

Cullen wasn’t very good at being delicate. He was, in fact, hired to be the opposite. But he wasn’t, right then, trying to be a commander. Talking to her, as she was, felt like holding a wilting flower in his grasp, fearing that even the slightest twitch would cause a petal to break away. He almost reconsidered. She clearly did not wish to speak of it, so perhaps he should honor that feeling.

_Ten years._

His fellow templars delivered sympathetic glances, pats on the shoulder, tiptoeing around him as if a heavy footfall might spiral him into hysterics. Greagoir sat him down to talk, and instead of helping, he sent him away to ‘level out.’ Perhaps he thought that would help. Perhaps it did. Greenfell provided a homely yet unfamiliar sanctuary. The Chantry sisters offered their wisdom and their prayers, but it all felt hollow. They spouted the same words he had heard from all the others, mere repetitions of holy verses they recited to every other Chantry-goer. Kind as they were, they did not care about him. Would it have been different – would _he_ have been different – if he’d had someone who actually cared?

Cullen would never know. But he knew Ora was surrounded by those who truly cared for her. They’d probably all offered up their support, but all at once, that didn’t matter. The Dalish may very well have valued actions over words, but sometimes words were an action in and of themselves.

“I… know you’ve probably heard this many times, and hearing it helps little,” he began, all of those thoughts fluttering in his mind as he spoke, “but I just wanted to make sure you knew that you can… come talk to me anytime you like.” 

The hands that had flown up to Ora's breast, almost defensively, lowered slightly. Those large, green eyes – widened by anxiety – stared on pitifully, guiltily, and they answered far more than her words did. “Thank you, Commander.” Sadness weighed down her voice, smothering it to little more than a murmur. It dragged down Cullen’s stomach, too. “That is very kind.”

 _Is that the official answer?_ he thought, the inner monologue laced with a sort of tragic humor.

“But there are more important things to worry about. Perhaps another time.” _Yes._

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

They stood in silence for a short moment before Ora bowed her head and exited his tent. No, she had never really seemed like she wanted to talk. He knew that. He could understand why. Always trying to keep busy to avoid the quiet thoughts. Cullen was not unfamiliar dealing with this type of situation, his own experience notwithstanding. Especially with the influx of recruits and volunteers, comforting those who were not used to the trauma that rode on the coattails of battle was one of the commander’s priorities. There would be no sending of soldiers to remote locations to ‘level out’ and get over it.

Either way, everyone handled it differently. It was obvious to Cullen that the Inquisitor desired her space and needed time, but it was growing increasingly difficult to subdue the overwhelming urge to help her. Particularly since he was convinced he had felt at least a sliver of what she was feeling. Cullen was a pragmatist, to be sure; and yet he had never wanted to do something so futile before.

He wanted to say why. He wanted to explain what happened at the Ferelden Circle. He wanted to tell her everything, for her comfort and also his own. With this, he might actually be of some help to her. But he couldn’t bring himself to speak of it. Instead he delivered a stale attempt at consolation and support, one she undoubtedly had heard countless times and denied; an offer that echoed sorely in his chest. 

But, at least he tried. At least she knew. She knew that _he_ cared. It didn’t feel like enough, but it was all he could manage. Hopefully… Hopefully it meant something.

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s efficiency knew no bounds. It was not long before preparations for departure were being made. His decision to have the forces return in parts allowed for everything to be done on a much smaller and digestible scale. The transition smoothened, the other advisors notified, and the ships en route to Val Royeaux, three weeks after the siege of Adamant Fortress, they watched Griffon Wing Keep dissolve into the distance. 

Despite the reality of the trip in store for them, many if not all of those traveling in the first party were eager to make it. Mostly, in hopes, of leaving what transpired there far behind. Ora was one of those people. 

A good number of Ora’s colleagues saw her altered behavior as an acceptable result of grief and exhaustion. They did not blame her. The things said, the things seen, and the things done in the Fade – particularly for those who were also there – were more than enough to shake someone to their core. The demon known as Nightmare focused on her the most. It had been ruthless and unrelenting. Every deep secret and dark fear found itself announced or put into action; when Cassandra saw maggots in filth, Ora saw the mangled and burnt bodies of her loved ones come at her with empty or hateful eyes. When Nightmare taunted Dorian with comments about his father, it barraged Ora with the reality that her failure would lead to the destruction of the world. Each fear as a mage, each fear as an elf, each fear as Inquisitor, as a friend was flung at her like a poison dart, the venom working its way gradually through her system until it would be too much for her heart to bear. Hawke’s death – her choice – brought her to her breaking point.

On the outside, she seemed sullen and quiet. Her energy levels had tapered to a fraction of what they once were, and she devoted much of it to completing necessary tasks. Her mask remained otherwise intact. _Not here,_ she would repeat to herself, just as Cassandra did that day. There was too much at stake, too many pairs of eyes that would not benefit from seeing her splinter – and also too many that would. The Inquisition had won its first major victory. Surely there were plenty out there who would look for anything to undermine it. She was already a Dalish elf, supposed Herald of Andraste in spite of her numerous objections; by just being herself, the Inquisition had been put at quite a disadvantage.

Too much had been sacrificed for her to falter now. Hawke was dead. Dozens of soldiers were dead. She had no right to feel the way she did. They were _dead_. For her, because of her. Dead. They knew the risks. She knew the risks. Then why wouldn’t the feelings go away? _Not here. Not here._ Then where? Her quarters were too close, her tent was too thin, and the desert was too dangerous to go alone. It was over a month’s trip back to Skyhold where thick stone walls could safely muffle her sobs and screams. Would she be able to last that long?

She would try. And maybe she would be better by then anyway.

But it only got more difficult as time passed. Night terrors allowed for only a few hours of sleep a night. It was manageable at first. Paired with her lack of appetite, however, it soon began to wear her down. And when travel finally began, the true depth of her damage showed itself to the others, even though it had been – all along – hiding in plain sight. They offered their ears, their shoulders, their alcohol – sometimes combinations, sometimes all three – to no avail.

Even when they reached the edge of the desert and overall morale improved (the color green appearing was enough to spark excitement), Ora stagnated. She still talked but talked reluctantly; she still laughed but laughed half-heartedly; she still smiled but smiled weakly; she still worked but worked less. Some were convinced, some sympathized, and some grew weary.

“She is the Inquisitor. She needs to act like it.”

“Have a care, Lady Cassandra. She is still recovering from Adamant.”

“Recovering? It has been over a month since the siege. There is no excuse for this behavior.”

“She’s not you.”

“I know this. But even still. I was there in the Fade with her. I too witnessed terrible things – my greatest fears played out against me. And yet I—”

 _“She is not you,_  Cassandra. She is not strong in the same ways.”

“Why do you defend her? I thought you, of all people, would agree with me. You are already overworked. For her to displace her responsibility is nothing short of unacceptable. We made her Inquisitor because—”

“She needs time.”

“She has had time! Time we do not necessarily have!”

“Calm yourself. I do not mind the work. There are no pressing matters. Let her have until we make it to Ferelden.”

“Ferelden? Are you mad?”

“No, merely concerned.”

“You think I am not? I consider her a friend, Cullen, I do, and I am worried for her. But the Inquisition is more important than any of us. She is the only one who can close the rifts. She must be fit for the task she accepted.”

“She will be. She is. But you must give her time.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I have faith in her.”

“… I do too. Perhaps… Perhaps Adamant has still not left me, either.”

“After reading your report, I would not blame you.”

“Perhaps you should consider talking to her.”

“She knows I am available to listen, but she must want to speak first. She will come to one of us when she is ready.”

 

* * *

 

Setting up camp every evening brought Solas a great peace. Though the drifting elf, for most of his wanderings, slept comfortably beneath the stars, he had – since traveling with the Inquisition – come to appreciate the isolating embrace of his tent. Ideally, he would choose a spot rather apart from the rest of the camp, where he could prepare his nightly rituals with little interference. It was important that he be as centered and as comfortable as possible. These things facilitated his ventures into the Fade, making his ethereal journeys all the more enjoyable. As others gathered by fires after supper, Solas washed his face and withdrew into his temporary abode, the subtle aroma of herbs emanating from beneath his bedroll, mingling with the scents of earth and air. Sometimes he would read until his mind slowed; other times, sleep took him with as much ease as a parent sweeping a dear child into his arms.

Though reaching the Imperial Highway proved mostly a blessing, with greenery providing shelter from the sun as well as grasses and berries ripe for picking, it also restricted Solas’ camping freedom at times. Everyone was encouraged to stay close, as the road itself made the possibility of ne’er-do-goods appearing higher than usual. With the Inquisition colors flying, however, the chances of being attacked lowered yet again, rendering the policy more tedious than reassuring. Especially at the present moment. Fate had it that he would be in close proximity to Blackwall’s tent, and the warden’s obscene snoring bluntly countered any of Solas’ attempts to sleep. He got along with the weathered warden better than most, but the snoring was perhaps more offensive to Solas than anything else.

Gathering up his bedroll, Solas decided that abandoning his tent seemed the best option and so trekked into the night. The camp itself had been divided into three main sectors. The Chargers on one side and the soldiers on the other more or less surrounded the Inquisitor and her companions, which is where he found himself. A dimming fire still glowed where the Chargers roosted; meanwhile, the night watch could be seen dutifully tracing the perimeter following the commander’s stringent orders.

Silently, swiftly, Solas’ bare feet padded through dirt and grass to a spot he deemed adequate. Blackwall’s snores had not disappeared as much as he’d wanted, but they were distant enough to be ignored. Head descending gently onto the pillow, Solas inhaled deeply through his nose, feeling his lungs expand to capacity. He held the air for a moment, let it warm, and then exhaled through coined lips. He closed his eyes against the clouds and stars. The Veil was not particularly thin in this area; that never normally posed a problem for the adept apostate, but given the other circumstances and… distractions, he wanted to ensure his entry into the Fade as well as he could.

He could feel his limbs begin to leaden, sinking into and melding with the warmth of his bedroll. His brow, which almost seemed perpetually furrowed, loosened and lifted. The wind sent soothing whispers through leaf-heavy trees. His breathing took on a deep and even cadence.

A sharp gasp jilted Solas from the brink of slumber. A resentful scowl crumpled across his features. Ears sharp in both ability and shape, they pinpointed the source to another tent nearby. Panicked panting followed the sudden inhalation, tapering rather quickly into a concerted effort to tame them. Obviously female, the culprit could be narrowed down to Cassandra, Vivienne, Sera, or Ora. The tiny shreds of voice carried on the tattered breaths suggested they likely belonged to the last two possibilities. Only when a crackling green light briefly illuminated a silhouette within did the answer become overwhelmingly clear.

Solas blinked. His mind begrudgingly returned to full alertness. He did not move or speak. Merely he listened.

When morning came, he watched.

Ora rose like all the others, when the sun only first began to peek from beneath the horizon and chase away the stars. She appeared barely rested, but that was hardly a change – for a while, Solas had noticed her exhaustion written plainly on her face. Not much else would suggest it; her hair was always braided cleanly or brushed through, skin bright from washing, traveling clothes relatively neat. One only need look into her eyes, the darkness beneath them, and her already slight yet gradually withering physique to see it.

Overhearing her nighttime episode solidified the notion that something more was wrong than simple distress or insomnia. It had taken Ora quite a while to calm herself, battling tears and restlessly tossing and turning in a futile effort to find relief. The prayers she muttered in broken elvhen spanned across the vacuous, misled Dalish pantheon. She begged Dirthamen to call back his raven named Fear that seemed to perch on her shoulder. She pleaded with Mythal to protect those she feared for the most. She implored Sylaise to watch over them – their campfires as makeshift hearths – and grant comfort and peace. She asked Falon’Din to guide those who fell at Adamant with great care, to impart to them her thanks and her sorrow – as well as entreating their forgiveness.

Only the sincerity of her tenor kept his eyes from rolling in dismay.

Her final supplication went to Fen’Harel. Unlike the others, to the Dread Wolf she first apologized. Apologized for having no offering, and for not having his statue at the outskirts of the camp, as was the norm with the Dalish. If he was the one bringing her these nightmares, as one of his titles implied, she said, then may he reconsider; the mark on her hand ensured the Fade he gleefully tread be whole. Whatever price attached to his help may she incur, she knew the price for her failure would be far greater.

Solas constructed his tent close to Ora’s when the time came to camp again. Sure enough, she awoke winded and shaken. She followed the same routine as the evening before, reciting the same prayers with the same bridled desperation. And it occurred not once, but three times throughout the night.

He approached her the next morning when she returned from freshening up at the nearby stream. Everyone else was busy dismantling their tents and preparing rations.

“Lethallan,” he greeted with a nod and a small smile. She returned the gesture in kind, a brand of mild surprise painting her face. It was rare to see Solas smile. He did it to come off as unassuming and friendly. “Might I have a word?”

“Of course.”

“Elsewhere, perhaps. Walk with me.” They strolled away from camp, towards the treeline.

The last time Solas requested such a thing in such a way was after Haven, and it worried Ora a bit. It had not been that long since his friend had passed in the Exalted Plains, either. The Inquisitor was honestly shocked that he showed up at Griffon Wing Keep at all.

“Do not be alarmed,” he went on, “but I could not help but overhear your troubles last night.”

Despite his opening, Ora wore her humiliation plainly. “Creators, Solas, I-I apologize. I hope I did not disturb you.”

He continued walking, a hand waving dismissively but not coldly. “Not at all.” He entwined his fingers behind him as they carried on. “I bring it up simply to offer a possible solution.”

“Solution?” she echoed, baffled. She did not completely understand what he meant. The two of them reached the trees, sunlight scattered on the ground by the leaves. It dappled her skin quite similarly, highlighting her freckles and pale vallaslin.

“You recall when I led you through the memory of Haven, I assume. I can attempt the same with your nightmares.” She did not look convinced. “Tell me: what happens during your dreams? Do they plague you often?” Ora fidgeted uncomfortably, the weight of her body shifting from one leg to the other. Solas maintained a steady gaze she could hardly hold. His palm came to rest on her shoulder. “I do not mean to distress you. If you would rather we not discuss it, that is your choice.”

“N-No,” she cut in immediately. “Forgive me, I… I am just a bit overwhelmed.” Her fingers ran through her dark hair. His hand slid from her shoulder to rejoin the other at his back.

“I suppose it is strange to consider for one not acquainted with the Fade as I am. I ask that you only allow me to explain.”

Ora’s eyes darted to the rest of the camp, all embroiled in some sort of task before they set out for travel. They then made their way back to Solas, who looked to her with the same unwavering, solid patience as before. But, again, it was not critical nor was it annoyed. It simply was. “Please,” the tired elf managed, giving in.

“Thank you.” Solas let a few seconds of silence elapse in hopes they might give Ora a chance to relax. “When dreaming, the Fade reflects the expectations of the dreamer. My theory is that, given the thinness of the Veil in the Western Approach, the demon you encountered while in the Fade could encroach upon your dreams quite easily.”

“Though we are far from the Approach, Solas,” she blurted with more urgency than intended. Immediately, she withdrew. “Yet they persist.”

“This is true. Regardless, I believe that this demon did so enough while we remained in the Approach that you came to expect the nightmares even when we departed.”

“I… I see.” Her eyes strayed to the earth.

“I also speculate that the mark has made you that much more susceptible. Though it allows you great ease entering and navigating the Fade, I suspect it makes you prone to getting lost within it as well.”

The edges of her mouth dipped downward, a sigh escaping her lungs. Her contemplation was palpable. “So,” she spoke up after a lull, voice small, defeated, “what do you suggest?”

“It is my hope to find you as you dream, and teach you to control the Fade around you. Or, at least, recognize your situation.”

“You can do that?”

“Of course. You and I have walked the Fade together before. I could have tried at the time, but I first wanted your permission. Dreams can be quite personal.”

“Thank you, I… appreciate that.”

Ora glanced away yet again at the rest of camp. Solas sensed her discomfort, not only at the subject matter, but also for not participating in packing up. “Think over it, lethallan. Find me should you wish for my assistance.” And with that, he sauntered away.

 

* * *

 

Initially, Solas felt disappointment at the fact that he had not been one of the few to physically enter the Fade at Adamant. Ora asked that he remain at the large rift in the main courtyard while she continued onward. It made sense; she could not close the rift with a blighted dragon attacking from overhead, and Solas knew more about rifts than most others. With little time to think, Ora split the party in two, one to guard and observe the rift, the other to accompany her as they drew the dragon away, pursuing the magister and Warden-Commander.

Now, as he stood in Ora’s nightmare, he felt that disappointment lessen. But only slightly.

If her projected memories were to be trusted, the area of the Fade they fell into was ominous: a feeling of heavy foreboding like he had never experienced before. It weighed down on his shoulders, made it difficult to breathe normally. The dark green atmosphere resembled the sky before a destructive storm, with black, choppy waters but still, stagnant air.

Each time he found her, Ora was engaged in a losing battle against her greatest fears. Her clan, murdered and mutilated. The world destroyed, her friends either dead or turned into red lyrium slaves, as it had been shown at Redcliffe. Red templars capturing her and amputating her left hand, leaving her useless as the monstrous Nightmare demon pushed its way through another rift she could not close. Red lyrium taking root in her body, growing out of her eyes, twisting her bones, devouring her very soul. Corypheus’ dragon being a true archdemon and signaling the beginning of another Blight, darkspawn overtaking the land and the Grey Wardens powerless against the ancient Tevinter magister. Solas was the first to learn the true fate of Hawke, as her gruesome demise was replayed for him. He would help her fight these visions off, or he would talk her down.

The first few tries did not work. Her terror was too great, her helplessness too potent, his words unheard. She would waken in her tent, drenched in sweat and hyperventilating. After those failures, Solas suggested that she have a meditational routine before lying down for bed. He would join her in her tent, telling her to think about what she wanted to see in her dreams. Where she wanted to go. To describe the people and places. To focus on the sound of his voice. To pay attention to fine details, especially faces that often appeared fuzzy in dreams, to let her know that she was actually dreaming.

When Ora would finally drift away, Solas would lie down beside her and find her again. He would tell her those same things in the Fade. Eventually, it worked. Still dreaming, Ora broke down in tears of joy as her fears, now debilitated, watched on wordlessly. Despite the success, it did not always happen. Ora would periodically succumb to the horror and bolt up from her bedroll; on especially bad nights, her limbs would scramble to find Solas and cling to him madly, stifling sobs against his shoulder in a half-asleep delirium. For a while, he did not understand her exorbitant hysteria. There were even times, when she became lucid, that she remained uneasy with her fears lingering obsolete around them. Solas came to the realization much later, when he observed one of her fears play out before him, that it was because many of her fears were a mere decision away from becoming reality. They typically were not strange or unlikely scenarios; they garnered a terrible legitimacy.

For almost the entire length of the Imperial Highway, Solas and Ora worked together to defeat her night terrors. This, of course, generated confusion and speculation among their peers, who would from time to time witness the bald elf exit the Inquisitor’s tent in the morning or enter it in the evening.

“It is none of your business what we are doing,” he would reply to inquiries made by a nosy Dorian or a teasing Sera. “Ask her if you wish to know.”

A few tried. Her most frequent response was: “It’s not what you think. I’ll tell you if it works.”

It did, for the most part. Ora did not gain full immunity from her nightmares; however, she acquired a significant advantage against them, both in the form of her grasp of lucid dreaming and the evolution of her relationship with Solas. When their “sessions” formally ended, Solas nevertheless checked up on Ora here and there, while she did not shy away from going to him for further advice.

“I think I may do as you have done, when this is over,” she confessed to him one day as they rode side-by-side on their horses.

“And what is that?”

“Explore the Fade. As much as it scares me, if it is that much easier for me to do it because of the Anchor, it would be a waste if I did not. There is much I could learn that could benefit the Inquisition. Benefit others.”  It was obvious that she meant her clan, and the elves in general.

“A noble task, but be wary. You know the Fade is warped by emotion and expectation. What you see may not necessarily be true.”

She nodded. “I’ve… been thinking about that aspect, yes. Perhaps it’s naive of me, but if I can figure out whose truth it is, it could still be helpful. At least insightful.”

“Yes. It could.”

Ora squirmed on her saddle, reluctant to spout her next string of words. “If you are not opposed… I would ask that perhaps we travel the Fade together, sometimes.” Solas’ ears actually perked up momentarily at the suggestion. He sent her a puzzled look. “Or, if not, I would ask that you point me in the right direction. Ruins to explore. Locations to investigate. That sort of thing.”

“I would be happy to, lethallan.”

A truly genuine smile carved its way onto Ora’s lip for the first time in nearly two months. Solas reciprocated, and his, too, took on a rare authenticity.

 

* * *

 

The Inquisition’s first convoy from the Western Approach arrived at the final outpost before Val Royeaux, having made relatively good time in part due to their size paired with agreeable weather. Eager to make it to the Orlesian capital, Cullen rose before the sun, washed up, and had his armor on before most of the others in camp began to stir.

Which is why he was surprised, upon checking with the stationed scouts at the checkpoint for any possible deliveries, that the Inquisitor had already stopped by and retrieved them herself just a moment before. The commander quickly glanced over his pauldrons, wondering if he’d been oblivious enough to miss her on his way over.

“The Inquisitor? Are you sure?”

The scout tending one of Leliana’s ravens looked from side to side, perplexed by the question. “Yes, ser, I believe so.” Doubt started to overtake her certainty. “The Inquisitor is… about yea high, light face tattoos, dark hair… right?”

“Yes, yes of course,” the commander surrendered, turning away from the scout and waving a dismissive hand to reassure her. “Thank you. Carry on.”

Making his way back to his tent, Cullen nodded to the few soldiers he passed that were out and about, though the gestures were a bit empty; his mind still reeled at the fact that Ora had not only risen before him, but had also fetched correspondence ahead of him. He thought he might go find her, but she was in his tent waiting for him.

“Oh! Inquisitor. Forgive my surprise, I did not expect—”

“I didn’t mean to startle you, I’m sorry.” Her fingers slid along the crease of a folded piece of parchment in her grasp. “I should have waited for you to return.”

“It is no problem.” He made his way to her side, turning to face her. Something felt different. His concentration created a brief pause. “I take it that is word from Skyhold?”

“Yes. From Josie. Apparently you, Vivienne, and I have been invited to a soiree.”

“A soiree?” Cullen’s nose crunched in displeasure. Ora let out an empathetic laugh.

“Yes, the invitation comes from Lady Seryl.”

“Ah, I see. The noble who lent us her siege equipment. I suppose that makes some sense. Then our return will be delayed a bit. I shall inform the party and plan accordingly.”

Ora’s slender fingers touched lightly upon Cullen’s metal vambrace. Though he could not feel her touch, it caught him off-guard nevertheless. It came with a kind reassurance. “Oh, I will handle telling the others.” Her hand departed soon after, and the commander watched it go.

“You are certain?”

“Of course.” Another short interlude. Ora’s eager gaze devolved into nervous glancing. “Is something wrong?”

Cullen hadn’t even realized his steady staring. He shook the daze away and cleared his throat. “No, not at all. I just, ah… did not think to pack my formal armor.”

Relief washed over her, along with a sheepish grin at his joke. “Josie suggested we find something in Val Royeaux before we board the ships.”

“A good idea.”

Yet another agonizing intermission. Ora inhaled. “Yes, well, I will go inform the others, then.”

Cullen’s body jerked back to reality, eyes wide and voice stammering. “Yes. O-Of course. Right. I will tell my men and begin preparations for Val Royeaux.”

When Ora finally exited his tent, the commander stood, feet planted, to the same spot for a good while, cursing his existence. His humiliation, however, was counterbalanced by Ora’s slight shift in attitude. Though she still appeared weary and deflated, it was less so. And that was not to mention the eye contact and initiative taken. The spark of levity in her tone was enough to throw him off.

His chest filled with a strangely modest elation, the energy emanating an unspoken, involuntary prayer of thanks to Andraste and the Maker. There was no use in fighting off the soft smile crawling along his lips.

It would follow him the rest of the day.

 

* * *

 

Three days in Val Royeaux and Josephine’s ships were ready to disembark. The party filed on board their vessel, both looking forward to and dreading the trip across the unpredictable Waking Sea. It was something few got used to; and of those few, Cullen Rutherford was not included. They hadn’t even left the harbor when the rocking of the boat already began to make him feel queasy, forcing him up onto the deck to stare at the horizon like he’d had to do so many times before.

Ora found him there, in the same spot, unmoving, hours later. She hadn’t been sure at first; he was out of his armor, a thick scruff coating his jaw, and his hair, whipped by the tempestuous wind, nearly rendered him unrecognizable. His unflappable gaze, so determinedly affixed to the distance, made it a task to even initially attract his attention.

“You’re under no obligation to check up on me every time we are on a ship, Inquisitor,” Cullen humored, trying not to give away the fact that merely looking away from the sky made his stomach lurch. “I will be alright. Eventually.”

“Of that I have no doubt, Commander, but Jader is still a long way.”

He chuckled. “The captain says we should arrive in about a week, if conditions permit. I’m strangely conflicted.” It was only then that he realized Ora had actually told a joke. Albeit a small one, but also smooth and natural – so natural, in fact, that he almost thought nothing of it. His pulse curiously quickened. Instinctively leery, the commander threw his full focus to the task of deciphering the elf’s expression, his cynicism demanding evidence.

Ora clamped her lips, suppressing a grin. It nevertheless showed through enough to lift her cheeks towards her eyes: a promising sign. “You know, the Dalish typically call upon Ghilan’nain for hasty travel… I wonder if my prayer to her for the opposite is the first she’s received.”

“It should stand out, at the very least.” Cullen finally dragged his gaze back to the horizon, though not without reluctance.

“I hope so.”

Cullen chanced another look in her direction. Ora stared out the sea now, Val Royeaux nearly gone from view, her braided hair faring much better against the gales than his own. Much like in his tent those days ago, something again felt different. Almost normal. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say something, but did not know if he should. “Forgive me, if this seems forward,” he announced, gripping the bulwark tightly, already replete with regret. His mind scurried, revising his original idea at frenzied speeds, hoping content would compensate for delayed delivery. “But I am… glad that you seem to be feeling better.”

Squinting against the sunlight, Ora lowered her head. “Me too.” He did not expect that response, let alone for her to go on, though her words struggled to escape her throat much like feet fought to escape a bog. “I owe everyone a lot. You, Cassandra, and Solas, especially.”

The elf’s name caused Cullen’s gut to involuntarily tighten. He had, of course, heard the rumors – as well as Ora’s dismissal of anything going on between them. Though the latter made far less noise in his mind, a modest and reasonable whisper amidst impassioned bursts. As much as he encouraged it to speak up, he inevitably could not completely stop the rude interruptions. If true, it made sense. They were both elves, both mages. Solas knew about rifts, understood the Fade. Though Solas disdained Dalish culture, it was a heritage they nevertheless had in common. Struggles and prejudices they shared and endured.

“You owe us nothing, Inquisitor. Myself least of all.”  

“An explanation, at least.” As far as Cullen could tell, it looked as if it was something she wanted to give. He conceded with a friendly invitation to elaborate.

“When we dream,” she began after a deep breath, “we enter into the Fade, as I am sure you know. Every night since the siege, I… I returned to that demon’s nest. Relived it. Over and over and over again. I did not want to sleep. I had no desire to eat. That is why I was so… detached.”

Cullen focused on her then, unaffected by the consequences it might have on his stomach. “I… I see.”

“Solas walks in the Fade when he dreams all the time. He offered to help me escape that place. Apparently this mark makes it that much easier.” Ora hovered her left hand in the air, the Anchor glowing dimly. “For weeks, he would find me in my nightmare and lead me away, or make me realize it was not real so that I could leave myself. After a while, the dreams became less frequent. And when I did end up there again, I could find my way out. I still struggle with it.”

He could find neither the words nor the will to respond.

“From what I have heard about the Circle and the Harrowing, it seemed similar in concept. Though as I try to explain it now, it seems less so. I-I don’t know.” She sighed, eyes returning to the wine-dark water. Timorous chuckles subsequently trailed behind. “This is supposed to be an apology.”

“You do not need to apologize.”

“Yes I do.” She brought something she had been keeping at her side to the bulwark: a wooden box with charming carvings along its sides. “I am still not… entirely myself. But I am trying.” Ora held it out to Cullen. He took it, flummoxed. “It’s tea. Orlesian tea. Vivienne helped me find it. For you.”

The commander unlatched the fastening and opened the container, revealing a good dozen mesh pouches delicately cradling browned tea leaves. “You did not have to,” he started to say before meeting her gaze. It was fleeting.

Her lips curved timidly. “Be sure to keep them dry. I was hoping we could try it when we got into port. Apparently it requires cream and sugar to be made properly.”

“Thank you.” He offered up an encouraging smile. “I look forward to it.”

After that, he noticed Ora could barely look at him. She left rather quickly. He wondered if he’d done something wrong.


	6. Restore Order in Wycome (pt 3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't speak French. And there's French/Orlesian in this chapter. I apologize for the poor translation. D:

After days of sailing and weathering two storms, they were met with a florid procession at the docks in Jader. Lady Seryl spared no expense in showcasing the arrival of the Inquisitor, going as far as having them escorted to her estate and an army of servants waiting for them. Ora could only take this as a form of foreshadowing for the soiree yet to come; if the noble lady of Jader was willing to do so much for simply disembarking a boat, she wondered what lengths she would go to for an actual fete?

She would find out soon enough. In the meantime, they enjoyed the luxuries afforded to them, such as feather beds, warm baths with perfumed soap, and hot, flavorful food – some more than others. It was easy to feel guilty after living a foot soldier's life for months, then to have such affluence thrust upon them. Some, like Sera and Cassandra, disliked it more so on principle; whereas the likes of Blackwall and Iron Bull took the transition in stride, mild-mannered and flexible as they were. Dorian and Vivienne had no qualms whatsoever concerning indulging, to no one's surprise. Decadence always made Ora feel out of place more than anything. It had taken her quite a while to acclimate to her rustic yet spacious quarters at Skyhold. She enjoyed being comfortable, to be sure; but the sheer scale of a noble's 'comfort' intimidated her utterly.

Luckily or unluckily, depending on whom one asks, the Inquisitor did not have much time to dwell on it. Vivienne insisted on coaching her for the soiree – though the court enchanter would not call it that. Little bits of 'advice' would be thrown around from Vivienne, commenting slyly on her posture or her demeanor.

"Darling, I have known Lady Seryl for some time. She is very  _proud_ to be Orlesian, and often feels a great  _need_ to display that." That was Vivienne's roundabout way of saying that, being on the border of 'backwater' Ferelden, Lady Seryl of Jader was hypersensitive to her image as an Orlesian. That would explain why everything seemed over-the-top. "Be prepared for that at the soiree. Take advantage of it. That is the very essence of the Game."

Needless to say, Ora did not feel at all prepared for any of it when the day of the soiree arrived; partly because it had only been two days since landfall in Jader, and also because she had been positively dreading the occasion since Josephine sent word.

The entire day, Vivienne took Ora completely under her wing, overseeing every aspect of her 'transformation.' By the end of it, she barely recognized herself in the mirror. She almost looked like she might be Orlesian. Her hairstyle subtly and cleverly obscured most of her ears, save the very tips, though there was no way of hiding her vallaslin. Every other aspect, however, pandered to the Orlesian – the human – fashion sense.

Ora could handle that well enough.

The garish gown – as exquisite as it may have been – made her uncomfortable, but that she could also handle. The only major problem was the shoes. Vivienne made her wear them throughout the entire process, hoping it would be sufficient practice to master the awkward angle of her feet. It was not.

Descending the stairs in the manor itself posed few issues, provided that the railing be there to keep her steady and guide her down. Vivienne, who traveled and battled in the tortuous footwear, briskly overtook her and waited for her at the bottom.

"Should I expect many staircases at the soiree?" One step at a time, sideways, Ora clutched the railing for dear life. Tumbling down a set of tall, sharp marble stairs was not on the top of her to-do list.

"Two or three, perhaps," the court enchanter replied, hands on her hips, trying not to let her disappointment overcome her completely. She felt herself more a failure than the clumsy elf before her; she should have insisted Ora wear heels more often when she entertained her noble guests at Skyhold.

"That's not good," she murmured under her breath, not wanting to risk expending too much effort on anything other than staying upright. At long last, the Inquisitor made it to the bottom of the stairwell.

Ora forgot about the steps leading down to the carriage loop outside in her anxious state. No railings. People watching. Carriage masters waiting, and Cullen standing by them as well. His punctuality was a curse. Her hands clenched her dress, bunching it up so that she would not trip or tear it. A slender, dark hand suddenly held itself out to her.

"Do not grip so tightly, dear, it will wrinkle the fabric."

Ora let out a grateful but still pitiful thank you to Vivienne, honestly bewildered the woman offered her hand, while at the same time terrified she might drag the classy mage down with her should she lose her footing. She took it nevertheless, and as gracefully as she possibly could, made her way down to the carriages. Cullen met them with a peculiar look on his clean-shaven face: not quite amusement and not quite concern.

It was because Ora had not let go of Vivienne's hand, even after they finished descending the steps. As beautiful as the Inquisitor appeared, no amount of makeup could conceal her steep and obvious uneasiness. He greeted them both with a nod.

The Court Enchanter briskly returned the gesture before guiding Ora's clasped hand toward him. "Commander, if you would." The elf's eyes darted between the two, her feet shuffling to accommodate the awkward exchange. Cullen received her with a comparable confusion. "I will be riding ahead. The people remember what comes first, but especially what comes last. You need to be memorable, my dear. You  _will_ be."

That answered two of Ora's unsaid questions at least: why did Vivienne insist on being late, and why were there two carriages when one could carry the three of them with room to spare? The coachmen leapt down from their perches with almost perfect synchronicity, swinging the doors open and bowing as they waited for their passengers to ascend.

"Remember," Vivienne added, her finger twirling a dangling ream of Ora's hair so as to maintain its delicate curl, "back straight, chin up, look forward. Center your weight on the balls of your feet to remain steady. Do not approach others; make them approach you." Unlike every other person who had encouraged her to reach out as Herald and as Inquisitor, Vivienne had always advised something along these lines.

Her brown eyes slid over to Cullen. "Are you attending a funeral, Commander? I honestly wish you had let me choose your outfit, dear. Just… do not be so rigid." The commander's face scrunched in disbelieving and puzzled offense before Vivienne twirled away and entered her coach with as much speed and ease as he might have had mounting a horse.

Inquisitor and commander stood stunned, the former's expression settling somewhere between mortified and humored. Her green eyes glanced apologetically to Cullen as Madame de Fer's coach tottled away.

"Let's get this over then, shall we?" she injected, voice braided with empathy. His shoulder rose and fell with a quiet sigh. Her hand still in his, Ora took a few steps towards the carriage door intending to lead him.

It would have worked if one of her tall heels hadn't caught between two cobblestones.

What escaped her mouth was a grotesque, alien sound: a mix of a squeal, a grunt, and perhaps a hiccup as she quickly collapsed towards the ground. The commander reacted swiftly enough. It would have been easy enough for him to just lift her up, but Ora's discombobulated scrambling made the task a tad more complicated. A wild elbow jerked back on their way up. More surprised than hurt, Cullen reared with the elf still in his grasp, nothing more than an 'oof' escaping his mouth. Ora gasped, eyes wide and jaw gaping in horror. She'd split his bottom lip.

" _By the Dread Wolf!"_ she bellowed, trying to regain her bearings with even more desperation – a feat in and of itself. Her body contorted in awkward yet somehow effective ways so that she now faced Cullen as he retrieved a handkerchief to apply to his mouth. Knees bent, arms outstretched, Ora's hands hovered inches from him, eyes rapidly scanning his face for any sort of cue. "I-I am so sorry, Cullen. I didn't mean— A-Are you bleeding?" The rather pitifully forlorn look on her face deepened, panic beginning to take root. Cullen did not respond, instead bringing the kerchief to his lip and back again, examining the red blotches that appeared each time. "Are you  _laughing?"_

"Forgive me," he finally replied, shaking his head as he futilely fought off a smirk. It wasn't enough. A fresh bead of blood pooled at the wound as a result, and he again dabbed the handkerchief to collect it. As disciplined as the commander was, there was just something about this entire situation that cracked his resolve. A chuckle nearly escaped, and he attempted to conceal it with a clear of his throat. The frazzled elf blinked, confused and embarrassed, with frustration close behind. "Come, I fear I'll suffer worse if we keep Lady Vivienne waiting." A gentle gesture nudged a reluctant Ora to the entrance of the cab, his teasing smile again hidden by the handkerchief as the Inquisitor struggled to form words.

They eventually made it into the carriage a bit behind schedule. As soon as they sat down and the door slammed closed beside them, Ora scooted forward in her seat. "Come, let me heal it."

"That really is unnecessary—"

"You think Vivienne will be upset if we're tardy?" she interrupted forcefully, the intensity of her tone catching him off-guard. "How do you think she'll be if she sees  _blood_ on your  _suit?"_

He only need ponder that for a second or two. "Fair point." He lowered the handkerchief.

Ora's fingers tentatively neared his mouth, the magic starting to concentrate at their dainty tips. They hovered above his injured lip, the glow increasing until it illuminated the interior. The shadows it cast made her wrinkled, concerned facial expression all the funnier. A grin twitched at the edges of his mouth, reopening the gash ever so slightly.

"Be still," she instructed warmly, enhancing the power of the spell to accomodate. That only made it worse. He choked back a laugh. Ora's own mouth pursed in anger and humiliation. "Stop! Stop smiling! You're—" A small growl rumbled in her throat. "You're not helping!" Her last words rode out on a rebellious, aggravated chuckle.

"If I recall correctly, I had been trying until your elbow intervened."

Rare was the moment Cullen let loose his inner sarcasm. The dialogue constantly played in his mind, though most times he found it either ill-timed or unprofessional to unleash. He had not exactly planned to say that out loud, but the air in the carriage was like his chest after an ale or three: warm, buoyant, and buzzing. It was difficult not to experience the same effects of alcohol – including equal parts silliness and nerve – when it felt so very similar. And so, like any other drunken fool, he found himself easy to amusement and quick to tease.

Ora might have noted how completely uncharacteristic this was of Cullen had she not been utterly crestfallen; she was far too absorbed in her mortification to take much note at all. Her subsequent reaction demonstrated that. Fingers flinching, curling back towards her palm, her magic quickly dissipating, the elf froze. Guilt and shock quarreled with every other one of her emotions, clogging her brain and thus preventing much functionality on her part.

The smile dropped from his lips like a leaf in autumn.

"That was merely in jest, Inquisitor," he offered, the lump in his throat bouncing with a hard swallow. "I-I did not mean to offend."

The materialization of his newfound anxiety somehow managed to pull her from her own. Her eyelids fluttered. "Oh, I'm not—" She wasn't offended, but Ora did not know what she was. Not exactly. A laugh seemed to be the only thing her body could accomplish. It did little to comfort the commander, but his own debilitated ego responded in kind. Before long, their awkward mirth bubbled in the cabin, suddenly rising and bursting in undulations.

"You really are going to make it worse," she finally spoke up after she'd partially reined herself in. Despite that, chuckles still bounced in her shoulders.

His grin stubbornly remained on his mouth, proving her point as it inevitably continued to bleed. His eyes strayed to the floor. "Forgive me."

"How dare you smile, Commander," she chastised, smirking herself. "Come, let me tend to it before we arrive."

He glanced out the window. "That may not possible, I'm afraid."

" _Now_  I am offended."

Besides the strange breath of magic and the clopping of hooves, the rest of the journey occurred in almost perfect silence. Most of her concentration pouring into the spell, Ora only happened to notice the commander's steady stare. Alarm paralyzed her lungs. He must not have realize what he was doing either, because a few hurried blinks preceded his gaze's retreat to the floor.  
  


* * *

  
The welcoming committee at the doors of Lady Seryl's manor was decidedly calmer than the one that met them at the docks; besides those chatting outdoors on the balconies, few guests were actually outside. Elven servants greeted them.

"Inquisitor Lavellan, Commander Cullen, Lady Seryl bids you welcome," he began in a thick, uninspired accent. "I ask that you wait only a moment so that we may inform our lady of your arrival. She will want to give you the entrance you so rightly deserve." With a curt bow, the elf gestured to another who immediately walked with great haste to the doors.

"Are you alright?" the commander asked in a hushed tone as he approached the Inquisitor, his lower lip fully healed but still a bit red. She stared silently at the staircase and the ornate doors looming at their summit, a narrow, violet carpet painting a path to them, fenced in by tall hedges.

She did not answer right away. "Of course." It was, obviously, a lie, but Ora was not trying to be particularly convincing. The servant turned to them a second time.

"You may proceed."

"Shall we?" Cullen appeared at her side with his arm crooked invitingly. Instinct bidded she accept his offer and tuck her arm into his simply for survival. All other meaning was lost as her eyes remained affixed on the ordeal before her.

They marched. Despite their height difference, Ora's legs were long enough to nearly match his strides. They reached the steps in little time. Her hesitation palpable, Cullen absently set his free hand on the one that rested on his bicep for an added sense of stability. As soon as he did so, Ora took the first step upwards.

Vivienne awaited them in the foyer. The Circle mage almost immediately peeled them apart.

"You need to be the very  _image_ of strength, dear. Hanging off the commander's arm will not do. You shall enter first, and we shall follow."

Ora stiffened, but luckily in a way that could be mistaken as good posture. She stared at the crack between the two doors as the announcement rang out behind them, albeit muffled. They swung open to a large room, lavishly decorated and tinted a warm yellow from all of the candles. On either side of the carpet were dozens of guests, many with their eyes directly on her, their hands beating in polite applause.

Cullen watched her take the first step tensely. From then on, every other one she took merited a quick glimpse from him. Lady Seryl herself addressed them from the other side of the room, heaping both welcome and praise upon them in grandiose terms.

"We are all honored and graced by your presence," the Orlesian lady proclaimed, "but I must thank everyone for being here tonight for this grand occasion!  _Profite bien!"_

After the three of them bowed, the crowd dispersed and a great din rose among them as chitchat resumed. It didn't take long for them to be bombarded with well-wishers and other visitors, all offering their sincerest greetings to Ora, for the most part. The commander went largely ignored – not that it bothered him. At least, it hadn't. Though his attention wandered from time to time, when it circled back around to the Inquisitor, he would see the man who had kissed her hand spit into a potted plant or wipe his mouth with a napkin. From then on, he watched each dignitary carefully. He was baffled to witness some go out of their way to awkwardly switch hands in a handshake so that, he assumed, they could touch the Anchor.

"Cullen." Ora's voice jerked him from his increasingly infuriated vigilance. "You haven't moved an inch. I hope you aren't sticking around for my sake."

"To be quite honest, Inquisitor, it's for my sake as much as it is for yours. I was hoping we might… stay close. Safety in numbers, as they say."

A look of astonishment melded with a look of relief. "That may be the wisest advice you have ever given, Commander." He yet again presented his arm for her to take. "What of Vivienne?"

"I doubt she will spoil a good soiree reprimanding our social ineptitude."

"I hope you are right." She wrapped her arm in his. He could feel her muscles loosen instantly. For a minute or two, they simply stood there. "We should… probably move about. At least make it seem somewhat convincing."

Dismayed, the commander had no option but to agree.  
  


* * *

  
Vivienne could not have been more in her element. Though more accustomed to larger events, she nevertheless glided through conversations and crowds with inexplicable ease: an elegant breeze that carried on its ends the faint scent of lavender. But she could become a commandeering gale with little effort. That was rarely necessary, however. Hide thicker than a gurn, Madame de Fer could withstand the sharpest of attacks – whether they be with a weapon or a word. But it was not always like that. Years and years of scars had replaced nearly every inch of her skin.

But it never made her feel damaged. It never made her feel inadequate. And it never made her feel defeated. It was an armor forged in the fire of her soul, burning bright despite a cool exterior.

Lady Vivienne could sense a capacity for the same in Ora, and after the delivery of the snowy wyvern heart when she arrived at Adamant Fortress, she was now quite dedicated to helping Ora fashion a suit of armor all her own. Not that she hadn't been when she first joined the Inquisition, and not that Ora hadn't started the process on her own already. She and Ora clashed over many choices and beliefs, but a difference in opinion was not enough to deter her. That would be petty. The odds were heavily stacked against her.

But that was when victory was the most satisfying.

Her confidence and excitement notwithstanding, Vivienne knew there was still much to be done. And as she mingled at Lady Seryl's soiree, she knew this would turn out to be a major test. Madame de Fer picked up conversational tidbits here and there, and more often than not, backhanded comments were interspersed within them. It did not typically get more creative than the 'knife ear' or 'savage' vocabulary; though that hardly mattered. The frequency of these insults worried Vivienne, but only for a specific and unlikely reason. She had been hearing these things ever since Haven about Ora. It was not new. But Vivienne knew, along with all the others, that Ora had been particularly fragile after the events at Adamant. Though much improvement had been made in that regard, the Inquisitor was far more suited for withstanding trials on the battlefield than a ballroom.

From time to time, Vivienne would catch a glimpse of Ora in the masses. She and the commander had ignored her advice, the two of them practically inseparable, apparently speaking more to one another than those around them. The mage rolled her eyes. Ora was lucky she was feeling lenient. They would discuss it in depth at another time, but certainly before Halamshiral. This party was nothing in comparison to the Winter Palace. For now, Vivienne was satisfied with the fact that perhaps the commander's presence could give off another sort of power. It wasn't nearly the awe she wanted Ora to inspire in the onlookers. But they would get to that.

The night drew on, and eventually Vivienne found herself invited to Lady Seryl's circle. She and about a dozen others gathered around the noblewoman, sitting on long couches on the second floor, indulging themselves in all manners of food and drink. It all went quite swimmingly until Ora and Cullen arrived – at the behest of Lady Seryl, no doubt. There was no room left to sit, so the two stood awkwardly on the outskirts (thankfully separated). Lady Seryl beckoned them forth. The formation was rather odd, and a tad rude; Vivienne's eyes narrowed. Was it intentional?

"How are you enjoying the evening thus far?" Lady Seryl asked after cordial welcomes mixed in with a sprinkle of compliments. Some still conversed with one another, but overall, a majority of the attention lay fixed on Ora and Cullen.

"I am… overwhelmed by all of the influential people in attendance – some who I am pleased have already devoted assets or have expressed interest in aiding the Inquisition's cause." Honest, but still refined. So far, so good. "Which brings me to you, Lady Seryl. I cannot express the Inquisition's gratitude enough for your contribution and aid." Good girl.

"It was my pleasure, Inquisitor. I am only glad that I was able to have but a small stake in such a glorious moment in history. Please, you must tell us about it."

"About what?" A thoughtless question. Ora couldn't have been that naive.

"About the battle, of course! I imagine it must be a colorful and exciting tale! I arranged this soiree with intentions of hearing it!"

Ora squirmed, jaw bouncing as she struggled to find words. She looked away: another mistake. "I would hate to disappoint you, Lady Seryl. But the battle I recall was not… colorful or exciting in any measure." At this, Vivienne grew a bit stiff. What was she doing?

"Oh, but my dear, we simply must hear of it! How am I to know to what extent the trebuchets and battering rams I lent to you aided your endeavors? You must understand, I feel like a proud parent!"

It was obvious that Lady Seryl was treating the entire matter as something more for her amusement and gratification than anything else. She was probably not interested in the details other than the actual siege. Discomfort covered Ora's face plainly.

Then, something even more curious occurred: Cullen interjected of his own accord, taking a step beside Ora and clasping his hands behind his back. Even Ora couldn't hide her shock, eyes foolishly widening and flying to him.

"I believe I might be a better authority on the matter."

"Ah, yes, of course, Commander! You led the siege, did you not? And if the rumors are true, it was your very first! Met with overwhelming success! I am overjoyed to know that my assets were placed in such capable hands! I wonder, have all your firsts been so auspicious?"

Sheepish giggles coursed through the audience. Cullen cleared his throat. "Thank you. Your siege engines were invaluable, to be sure."

Then, there was nothing. Only a pause. Vivienne couldn't help but cut in. This could still be salvaged. "In what way, Commander?" He hadn't been expecting her input. He even looked a tinge irritated. "I believe that is what our Lady Seryl wishes to know."

Her prod was ineffectual. He replied with a dark, lowered brow. "In breaching the walls of the fortress, as trebuchets and battering rams tend to do. You were there, Lady Vivienne. I am sure you could weave a finer tale than either I or the Inquisitor."

A wry smile carved itself along Vivienne's face at Cullen's bold deflection. "Kind words, though I believe if Lady Seryl wanted a tale from me, she would have requested one."

"Now now, Lady Vivienne, it is alright. I believe he merely pays you a compliment. He is the very portrait of a gentleman. But Lady Vivienne is correct, Commander. I am eager to hear details."

What went on for the next ten minutes or so could only be described as a catastrophe. The commander droned on with a very methodical yet stale description of the siege, going as far as plunging into the finer intricacies of calibrating the trebuchets. Vivienne's sharp gaze zoomed to Ora, whose lips curled into her mouth – no doubt to quell a snicker. At long last, Lady Seryl intervened.

"Thank you, Commander. It is always a pleasure to learn of all the fine points of battle. You certainly have wonderful tales to tell. I would hate to keep you for myself for so long."

"And I have many more. It is no trouble, I assure you."

"But it is! You must share your story with our other guests. They would be deprived without it. I know just the person you should speak with." Lady Seryl made a delicate gesture with her gloved hand, and a servant came to her side. "Please show the commander to Lord Letourneau. He simply must hear it." The elf nodded and approached Cullen, urging him to follow. Whether Cullen was blind to the tactic or opposing it Vivienne was not sure, but after a moment, Cullen bowed and departed, leaving Ora to the wolves. He seemed to try to apologize through his eyes, but Ora stared straight ahead, oblivious.

"What a riveting story from such a… charming man! I hope you do not mind, Inquisitor, but it is really you whom I wish to hear from."

"O-Of course, though I must stress that any battle-related information is best heard from Commander Cullen."

"I am sure, but you are the guest of honor! I should like to hear it from you. We thrive on stories here, Inquisitor. You, of all people, should know the value of such things!"

"I… I suppose I would."

"I mean no offense by this, of course. Despite the past, we here view the Dalish with some measure of awe and respect. You have such fascinating stories."

"I am no hahren, unfortunately."

"Pardon?"

"Hahren. The clan's storyteller."

"Surely you do not need to be one of these  _hahren_ to tell a good tale!"

"I did not take you as someone interested in hearing Dalish legend. But I suppose I could—"

Lady Seryl's patience showed its first signs of rapid deterioration. "I'm sorry, my dear, I think there has been a misunderstanding. Dalish history and culture surely are of great interest to me, but I was speaking more specifically of the Western Approach. The Champion of Kirkwall, in particular. It is with great sorrow we learned the news of her passing. But it is mired in so much rumor and mystery. We were hoping you might be able to elaborate, so that we may properly honor her memory. You must understand."

Taut silence. The color drained for Ora as soon as Hawke was brought up. "The Champion fell in battle. She fought and died valiantly. That is enough to honor her memory."

"Yes, that is true, but you see, it is very difficult to believe the Champion, who bested the brutish Arishok in head-to-head combat, could simply fall in battle! I know there is something extraordinary surrounding it. There must be."

"It was an extraordinary battle, Lady Seryl."

"And yet you say it is not an exciting tale to be told." Ora did not respond. Lady Seryl's mask alone could not shield the smugness radiating from her.

Vivienne could tell that Ora was making an honest effort to be polite in a traditionally vague Orlesian way, but Lady Seryl was making the grave mistake in thinking the Inquisition was the same institution that borrowed her weapons before Adamant. No one believed that her generosity emerged from a pure place or that she expected nothing in return; what she got as payment was favor, and the inept noblewoman now squandered it foolishly prodding the Inquisitor so. Perhaps it wasn't completely her fault; without knowing the gritty realities of what went on at Adamant Fortress, Lady Seryl could never know just how much of a feat it actually was, and that after their victory, allies were popping up at such a rate that she could be quite easily replaced.

However, the court enchanter soon realized that the real reason was much simpler.

"Are you sure you were even there, Inquisitor?" The circle laughed loftily.

Ora forced a smile. "I am quite sure, my lady."

"There is nothing wrong with being a figurehead, of course. Being a symbol, and nothing more. I could understand the logic behind shielding the Herald of Andraste from danger. A cause I could see the Champion dying for, perhaps."

Vivienne withheld a scoff. Presumptuous as ever. Then again, no one knew what happened to the Champion of Kirkwall – except the two survivors. And although she hated to admit it, upon glancing to the Inquisitor, Vivienne suspected that maybe Seryl might not be too far off after all.  
  


* * *

  
"Have you seen Ora?"

"What, she's not with you?" Vivienne replied bitterly, plucking a small cake from one of the many long tables.

"No."

"Good." The commander did not move. "If you're looking for someone else to be your chaperone, I'm afraid I cannot help." The circle mage took a measured bite.

"I only ask," he retorted, "because I have not seen her since speaking with Lady Seryl."

"Is that so?" Vivienne had not, either. She had just assumed Ora and Cullen would resume their tour. Madame de Fer sighed and handed off her half-eaten pastry to the nearest tray-toting servant. By the time Cullen's eyes strayed back to where she stood, she'd gone.

Twenty frustrated minutes later, Vivienne would find her outside, on a balcony overlooking the gardens. The court enchanter made sure to silently and subtly close the glass doors behind her.

"Darling,  _please_ tell me you haven't been out here this entire time." When Ora failed to either look or speak in response, Vivienne grew more agitated and continued chastising her. "Your absence makes this decidedly bad night worse. Come, let us use what dignity we have left to try to fix this."

Ora turned away from the ledge and filed towards Vivienne without a word. The enchanter remained still, scrutinizing glare set upon the elf's face. A few quiet moments passed. Vivienne's brow lifted in a surprising show of sympathy, instead gently taking Ora's arm and guiding her to a stone bench. They sat. The Circle mage dabbed the end of a handkerchief on her tongue and brought it to the Inquisitor's cheek.

"You missed a bit, dear."

"I'm sorry."

"Never apologize." Vivienne wiped away the stray streaks of grey marring her vallaslin. "Never apologize for who and what you are, my dear."

Ora tremulously wiped underneath her other eye, nose sniffling. "I looked like a fool."

"That is something Lady Seryl will answer for. She plays dangerously. But you are better at the Game than you think." Ora snorted. "It's true. Tell me, over the course of your term as Inquisitor, have you – a Dalish First – more or less acclimated to the overwhelmingly human culture around you?" Ora's green eyes locked on Vivienne's. "A difficult, though not impossible, adjustment. One I'm sure you deemed necessary. You understand compromise without being apologetic. You understand sacrifice for gain. Dear, you've been playing the Game this entire time. And quite well."

Ora's lips parted, her chest rising and falling as the speed of her breathing increased. "Adaptation is a strength, not surrender. The Game is not for fun; you may come to enjoy it, but fundamentally, it is for survival. The weapons are different, but the battle is still real. Halamshiral will be another demon entirely. And neither I nor the commander can protect you there."

The elf laughed, not knowing what else to do. "Creators, he's alone in there."

Vivienne rolled her eyes, but lightheartedly. "You are a Dalish elf, a mage, Herald of Andraste, and Inquisitor. As unfortunate as it is, you will need to work harder than most for the respect you deserve. But dear, never think you do not deserve it. And never,  _ever_ let anyone make you feel that you are less than you are."

Ora would reenter the party – rattled, but her resolve firmly reinforced.  
  


* * *

  
At the end of the night, Vivienne headed elsewhere as Cullen and Ora rode in a carriage back to their lodgings on Lady Seryl's estate. Before he could ask, she kicked off her shoes and popped off her corset; whatever was keeping her hair up as it was found itself tossed onto the floor or into the darkness. The elf collapsed back into her seat, eyes closed.

Cullen allowed a few moments to separate her actions and his next words. "We need to invest in our own trebuchets."

"Immediately."

Again, he waited. "Are you alright?"

She inhaled deeply through her nostrils. "I will be." She tilted her head upwards. "How about you?"

"Better now that it's over."

They traversed the empty, quiet halls. The commander insisted he walk her to her quarters.

"Shall we meet in the morning to draft that request to Josephine?"

"Creators, yes. A strongly-worded request." Their voices echoed against the shining marble. They were joined by the clacking of Cullen's boots and the light padding of Ora's feet.

"Let us not forget whom we write to. Lady Josephine deals with these sorts of people on a daily basis."

"You're right. A gently-worded request, then. Pray that she empathizes."

"She will."

Ora turned to him before opening her door. "Thank you. For everything tonight." She stared into his face earnestly.

"Of course. I couldn't, in good conscience, let you brave Orlesian nobility alone."

"We make a good team. I couldn't have asked for better company."

Cullen's head dropped, a sheepish smirk hiding. "You needn't lie, Inquisitor. I will be the first to admit I'm not exactly the soiree type."

"I'm not lying. That's precisely why you were." His strong brow wrinkled easily, very much used to the expression. Ora opened her mouth to explain, but stopped herself when she realized how awkward it sounded. Something about telling someone  _you were the only thing I knew was real_  seemed a bit melodramatic. Instead her gaze faltered, swinging to the floor and back up again like a nervous pendulum.

"If you say so, Inquisitor."

Ora's shoulders widened with a deep breath, giving off the illusion that it was leading up to something big. But all that ended up emerging on the exhale was anticlimactic and deflated. "Goodnight, Cullen."

"Goodnight," he repeated, voice saturated in a soft warmth.

She left him alone with his hammering heart in the dim hall. He stood planted to the same spot longer than most others would, his brain too busy processing for his body to move. He would come to regret it as the door flew open. A startled Ora drew back at the sight of him.

"Oh, you're still here!"

"O-Oh, yes! For… Forgive me. I…" For all his cleverness, Cullen could not think up something fast enough. "I merely forgot to ask you something."

She squirmed, back against the doors. "As did I. You go first."

"No, please, ask away." He hoped it would work.

"Oh, well… I wanted to know if we were to meet tomorrow morning in my quarters or yours."

"Whichever you prefer."

"I will come to you, then." A pause. "What were you meaning to ask?"

"I… I seem to have forgotten. If I remember, I will ask you in the morning."

"Oh! Okay, well…" Ora opened her door behind her, still facing the commander. "I will see you then. Try to remember."

"I-I will."

"Goodnight. Again."

"Goodnight."

Cullen dared not wait another second after she went inside.  
  


* * *

  
One of the very first things Cullen made sure to do when he arrived in Jader was dismiss the servants designated to his care. He made it very clear that he would only need the bare essentials, like hot water for bathing, and meals. Which made it all the more humorous early the morning after the soiree as Cullen scoured the halls for someone who could help him.

The unfortunate soul he'd run into was named Margot.

An elf of slight build – even by elven standards – Margot was an icon of warmth: brown hair, lighter brown eyes, and even lighter brown skin. But this fooled most. She was as hard as the life she lived. She did not, however, speak anything other than her native tongue. It must have been quite a sight: the commander of the mighty Inquisition stumbling through broken Orlesian, all the while hoping his exaggerated gestures would get his point across to a very disinterested elf.

Finally, after multiple pouring motions and a weak whistle, Margot's body stiffened in realization. "La bouilloire?"

Cullen had hoped the word would sound more familiar. "Er… oui?"

Margot glared, unenthused. "Pour le thé?" she added slowly.

She could practically see each word going through the commander's brain, filtering from one language to another. His face brightened. "Yes. I mean, oui."

"Avez-vous besoin d'une tasse?" She regretted speaking as soon as she asked. He clearly had no idea what she said. "Ehm… sucre?" No luck. "Crème?" she tried, know that it sounded at least similar to the Fereldan equivalent.

"Yes, please. Sugar and cream.  _Crème._ " He massaged the back of his neck, mumbling. "I am so sorry."

A tense interlude ensued. Margot cleared her throat. "Et une tasse?"

"Forgive me, I do not—"

Before he could even finish his sentence, the elven servant crooked her index finger and pretended to sip, meanwhile she pointed impatiently at the invisible cup. "Une. Tasse?"

He caught on quickly enough. "Ye—oui!" He held up two fingers. "Two, uh… tasse."

"Deux?"

The flustered Fereldan nodded. "Pour deux."

Margot would arrive not long after at the commander's quarters, a large tray in hand containing all that he requested. "Commandant!" she called, unable to knock. The doors swung open. Almost immediately, much to her astonishment, Cullen whisked the tray from her hands, leaving her wide-eyed in the threshold.

"Merci, Margot." She followed him inside as he laid the tray on a table between two petite sofas set before the fireplace. Crossing and rubbing her arms, the elf glanced about apprehensively. Although the Inquisition had not been in Jader for more than three days, the commander's room looked untouched – perhaps even tidier than before. The blanket and sheets on the bed were pulled taut; pillows with no signs of indentations. He'd got the fire going himself, hearth devoid of any ashes. Her attention snapped back to Cullen when she heard the click of a clasp. He extracted two delicate mesh satchels from the box in his grasp and set each one gingerly into the teacups.

"Avez-vous besoin d'autre chose, commandant?"  
("Do you need anything else, Commander?")

It was clear he, again, did not understand her. And Cullen, again, tried to play it off. "Do… Do you like tea, Lady Margot?"

"Le thé?"

"Oui. Toi. Tu. Vous?" He resorted to pointing at her unsurely.

"Moi?" Puzzled, she cocked an eyebrow.

He simply ended up bringing the box to her. "Une pour vous?" he inquired, each word spoken with uncertainty.

"Quoi?"

"Pour merci."

Face scrunched, Margot lifted her hand and let it hover to see what he would do. He did nothing. She lowered it closer to the box. Nothing. She picked up a teabag. He smiled, shutting the box and walking away. Squinting side to side, the elf stood immobile for a few seconds, eventually analyzing her strange… gift? Only when she spied the tag dangling at the end of a silken thread did she react.

This was no ordinary tea. It was very rare, expensive tea. Her hand closed around it like a venus fly trap.  
  


* * *

_  
We believe it would be in the Inquisition's best interests to procure its own trebuchets, battering rams, and related siege equipment._

Josie, for our sakes, PLEASE.

 _Yours in rightful desperation,_  
_Inquisitor Ora'ana & Commander Cullen_  
  


* * *

  
Ora barely changed clothes before she approached Varric at Skyhold. Between trembling, crying, and begging for forgiveness, the Inquisitor told the dwarf what had happened to Hawke in the Fade. She had told no one else the specifics. Not until he knew. By the week's end, a report finally made its way into the advisors' hands, co-authored by the mage and the rogue. Now, they all knew.

It was a difficult adjustment for just about everyone. For months, the bulk of the Inquisition had been reallocated to the Western Approach; the Inquisitor and her companions had been gone even longer, having had no reprieve after traveling to the Exalted Plains. Despite the influx of faces as forces trickled back, Skyhold remained relatively quiet, the weary recovering.

For the Inquisitor, business resumed as usual. Josephine delayed war room meetings as long as she could after their return, but after only a few days, she realized its impossibility. On top of all of the backlog from the Inquisitor's absence, more and more correspondences poured into Skyhold every day as a result of their recent exploits. Not only that, but the date for the Halamshiral treaty ball had been set after the Inquisition rectified matters in the Exalted Plains. Josephine had already started preparations. It didn't end there. Magister Erimond had yet to be tried. Leads had finally been found on the whereabouts of the Seekers of Truth, and Bull suggested something about an alliance with the qunari to be forged at the Storm Coast. And the list continued to grow.

In the following weeks, Ora slept. She often nested in the ocean of pillows in Sera's balcony, napping in the mid-afternoon when the air was warmest; or among the books scattered around Dorian's reading chair when the sky was dark. Everyone was doing what they had to do to heal. Ora's just happened to include naps in odd places. Perhaps she was making up for all the sleep she had lost on their way back from the Approach. She still had nightmares sometimes. But Skyhold was safe. For the first time in a long time, Ora felt safe.

She held on desperately to that feeling. At first she did so much in the same way a thirsty person drinks; but it soon evolved into a person drowning to prevent ever feeling thirsty again. She was tired, and she was tired of being vulnerable. Ora knew she couldn't outrun it forever. She would have to leave again and fight again and lose again. But not at Skyhold. Not behind those walls; not among those pillows; not surrounded by those books; not in her own bed. Not so long as she could help it.

Cole sought to change that.

With every soldier that returned to Skyhold, fierce feelings followed. Cole had been with Varric so long, hoping to help his heavy, heavy hurt, that he at first felt overwhelmed. But time helped heal wounds he could not, and in doing so, time also helped him. But despite time, the Inquisitor had the same knot of pain in her chest when she came to check up on him every so often. The knot had many strings making it. Some she had managed to pull free, but the others wound up tighter. However, there was one string Ora could possibly release but did not try. She was scared to try. Even though Cole knew, she did not know that it would come loose so easily, so quickly. Because the one who could untie it – who would untie it without hesitation – wanted and needed something to grasp. To feel it in his fingers and know.

But saying was not safe. Not for her. If she said, she could lose chess; she could lose tea. She could lose the smiles and the softness. Saying was not safe.

But he was.

"Safe and solid," he told her one evening, when he could hear her thoughts and they thought of him, "protecting and proud. He feels like quiet, stronger when you hold him."

And she knew what he meant. And she trusted him. She watched him help, wanted him to help. Because she knew more than most people that some things were more important than fear. Sometimes she just had to be reminded.

Climbing those steps reminded her of Haven; her skin was just as cold, her legs just as heavy. She felt ashamed even making the comparison. She tried to seem normal, not nervous. It didn't work. Her words fumbled from her mouth.

"I thought we could talk," she began. There was a small pause, as if the answer was obvious to him and need not be said. She blurted the awkward addendum. "Alone."

"A-Alone? I mean, of course."  
  


* * *

  
*Time crawled. Ora marched with a staggering focus, though she could not have been more blind to most of what went on around her. All her energy poured inward. Muttering thanks as Cullen opened doors for her, each step making her feel farther and farther away – or wanting to be – the elf emanated a foreboding discomfort that couldn’t help but be palpable. The commander unfortunately, unwittingly, unsurprisingly soaked it up like a sponge.

“It’s… a nice day.”

It was a true statement, not even taking Skyhold’s strange magics into account. No clouds dotted the sky, leaving it a crystalline blue, clear and sharp enough to let the sun’s clean light effortlessly cascade into the fortress. The small brown birds that somehow found their way to this tundra oasis flittered from trees brimming with leaves. There was a slight nip in the air, but as slight as slight could mean.

None of this quite registered with either of them. Cullen might have said it even if the weather was overcast and cold. Ora looked as if she were marching to the gallows. That was pretty close to what she was feeling, too.

“What?” This was not in response to his words. In fact, she did not hear what he’d said over the ringing in her own ears.

“It’s…” Cullen gripped the back of his neck with tense fingers. “There was something you wished to discuss.”

Something. Something made it sound so insignificant. Something made it sound comprehensible. Coherent. Something gave it a shape when before it was formless, but heavy all the same. Gave it a name. Just some thing.

It sounded so wrong.

They suddenly stopped. Ora didn’t know who decided on there. Patrols lingered nearby, as they always did, as they always should. They hadn’t gone as far as she’d have liked. But not too far. Far enough to let her shame loose with the fewest witnesses, yet close enough to have a place to hide after.

But there would never be anywhere to hide. Not ever, and especially not after this. He would always be there, holding meetings, training soldiers, doing paperwork. The light from his window would always be just across from her balcony. And as much and as often as she tried to dispel the fireflies, it seemed like they were there to stay, too. And one of the first and most difficult things she learned as Herald and as Inquisitor was that she could not hide from herself.

All at once, nothing was safe again. Skyhold was just another battlefield.

_Safe_

But they were both suited for a battlefield, the commander quite literally as he stood, armor gleaming in the pure sunlight, palm of his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. From behind, the sun illuminated his saffron hair and transmuted it into a glowing crown. It was as warm as it was imposing; as comforting as it was harrowing.

_and solid_

“Cullen, I…” A soldier walked past, suspending the words she’d fought so furiously to release. Everything suspended. The breath in her lungs, the feeling of the stone beneath her feet, the gravity that made her feel real and feel whole.

“I…”

_protecting_

“... care for you, and—”

Cullen’s armor audibly clanged as his spine straightened. Ora let out a hopeless and distressed sigh. “What’s wrong?” A stupid question. A stupid question that came out much differently than how he wanted.

Harder to breathe, harder to think. Her mind felt as if it were floating away from her skull. “You left the templars, but do you trust mages?” An asinine question. Memory flew back to Haven as he reminded both mages and templars that they were on the same team. It flew to his deference to her decision to go to Redcliffe, and his insistence that they not lose her. It soared to his aid in constructing the mage’s tower at Skyhold, making sure it did not suffer the same shortcomings as the Circle. It bolted to that night in the carriage, her magic hovering centimeters from his face. It coalesced on the day he wore the flowers from Iriel.

_and proud_

Quiet. All at once, everything came into focus. There was no sound. Nothing but the resonance of existence. “Could you think of… me, as… Could you…” Ora was beginning to show signs of physical distress.

_He feels like quiet_

She didn’t need to finish. “I could. I mean, I do… And what I might say in this sort of situation.” He shielded his face with his hand, his legs carrying him away. Ora’s heart dropped into her stomach. Hollowly, she followed.

“What would you say?” she barely managed. Let it be over with.

“You’re the Inquisitor. We’re at war. And you…” The road seemed to lead to a destination she suspected it would. Cullen, the professional. Cullen, the pragmatist. Cullen, the commander. But he slowly closed the gap between them. Her eyes zigzagged up his body to his face, wide and confused. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

Her heart in her ears, Ora had to tell herself to breathe. “What if it…” It sounded so stupid. It all sounded so immature and silly and stupid. But she’d already come this far. She’d already said too much. A part of her gave up. “What if it was?”

The question echoed endlessly in his ears. “It seems too much to ask.” What if it was? If it was, he would have told her how terribly he felt about Haven. He would have told her how he’d never respected anyone more in his entire life. He would have told her the real reason he went to Wycome. He would have told her that he still had a halla made out of twigs stowed in his desk. He would have told her that he thought she was the most beautiful thing in the world, covered in dirt and sweat and blood and armor. He would have told her that he wanted nothing more than to follow her at Adamant Fortress. He would have told her he started having nightmares about her afterwards. He would have told her he was glad she could not feel his pulse when they walked together in Jader. He would have told her he knew she let him win at chess. He would have told her the taste of elfroot tea had grown on him.

But he had told her none of this. All because he wanted to think it wasn’t possible. He wanted to have an excuse not to. Because she absolutely terrified him.

And yet, here she was before him, stuttering and blushing and fidgeting and panicking. And here he was, finding himself getting so close he can feel the heat from her skin. “But I want to—” Hands set delicately, nervously on the curve of her hips, holding her there but she’s still spinning.

“Commander!”

Things stopped abruptly enough to give them whiplash. Their eyes opened as if waking unexpectedly from a pleasant sleep. Ora couldn’t look at him.

Cullen’s hands dropped to his sides. Was this really happening? “You wanted a copy of Sister Leliana’s report.” Indeed, it was.

“What?” That came out angrier than he wanted it to, but it seemed his tone was going for accuracy.

“Sister Leliana’s report. You wanted it delivered ‘without delay.’” Cullen grabbed Jim by his collar and threw him over the wall to the jagged rocks below.

He didn’t. But he was thinking it.

Jim was no mind-reader, but even still, he could feel what that glare meant. He realized the extent of his mistake when he glanced over to the Inquisitor then back to the commander. This made him even angrier, eyes narrowing severely. “Or… to your office… right…”

Ora’s vision blurred with anxiety and humiliation, the stones of the battlements looking like nothing more than smudges. Maybe it was better this way. The interruption seemed too perfect. Was that the world telling her something? That possibility settled with her much quicker than she thought it would, and it was somewhat relieving. “If you need to—”

Her lips orchestrated the movement of her next word without the accompaniment of the sound, swallowed by his.

When he had given his body permission to kiss her so suddenly, Cullen did not know. He never gave that order.

 _stronger when you hold him.  
_  

* * *

  
" _You don't regret it, do you?"_

" _No! No. Not at all."_  
  


* * *

  
"Fasta vas! Wants to keep private affairs private, does he? Should have thought about that before kissing you desperately on the battlements in broad daylight. He may not want to  _tell_ , but he certainly wants us to  _know_. Naughty templar."  
  


* * *

  
"Inquisitor, we were…"

"Eagerly awaiting your presence—some of us more than others."

"I wasn't… I mean, I was… We have work to do."

"Of course."  
  


* * *

  
"Com ** _man_** der."

"... Iron Bull."  
  


* * *

  
"Ugh. Someone here to see you, Inquisitor."

"What are you doing? It's early, even for you. Were you hiding?"

"I thought I would… see you off."  
  


* * *

  
"I've never told anyone what truly happened to me at Ferelden's Circle. I was… not myself after that. I was angry. For years, that anger blinded me. I'm not proud of the man that made me. The way I saw mages… I'm not sure I would have cared about you, and the thought of that sickens me. Now I can put some distance between myself and everything that happened. It's a start."

"For what it's worth, I like who you are now."  
  


* * *

  
"Word from Captain Rylen, ser."

"Thank you. Dismissed."

He unraveled the scroll. There was written only one sentence.

_What did I tell you?_

The paper snapped back into a roll, Cullen's brow furrowed, eyes clamped shut.  
  


* * *

  
"All right. You can take it off now."

"I swear Cullen, if—oh!"

"What do you think?"

"They're… How many are there?"

"Three trebuchets and two battering rams. For now."

"How did you sneak these in without me noticing?"

"Very carefully."  
  


* * *

_  
Ambassador Montilyet,_

_Although matters in Wycome seem better than before, with the sudden departure of Duke Antoine's Tevinter advisor, I confess that the nobles are now in_  quite a state.  _They are very_  passionate  _in their opinions and act like a drunkard_  shaking  _in want of his spirits._

 _I have heard talk of the nobles putting their cares aside and indulging in some_  youthful sport.  _The local townsfolk are likely not up to such competition, and I fear the presence of our Inquisition soldiers might lead to_ silliness  _on all sides. Were the Dalish outside Wycome invited to join in—perhaps by a clever_  jester— _the match might be more sporting._

 _Yours,  
_ _Lady Guinevere Volant_

"Josephine's diplomat warned against a large force. Let me get the Dalish into the city, as she suggested. They can take the nobles by surprise."

"Are you sure? Josephine's diplomat makes it clear that the nobles have gone mad. They will kill the Inquisitor's clan unless we send forces to quell them."

"Our forces still make their way back from the Western Approach. We have few hands to spare. I would listen to her. Her intuition has been correct thus far."

"That is true."

"Ora?"

The elf was pulled from her daze. Her hands shake. She clasps them to hide it. In her ears, she hears the screams. In her head, she sees their deaths, tinged in that sickly green. The last thing she wanted to do was send them directly into harm's way. Leliana's idea therefore went immediately to the backburner.

"So you think sending forces to Wycome would be an unviable option?"

"It carries the same risks as before, Inquisitor, but now includes leaving Skyhold less defended."

"Not only that," Josephine added, "but I know Wycome has a relatively impressive standing army. With what we could provide at present, I do not believe it to be the wisest path, their possible red lyrium poisoning notwithstanding."

But sending her clan into a city to fight? Nothing sounded more ludicrous than that.  
  


* * *

  
He held her in his arms. He was still getting used to the touching, the closeness. They both were. But if there was any moment to do it, it was then.

She practically collapsed into them. She found she couldn't do much else, no matter her feelings about it.

"You made the right choice."

Ora blinked, her stare set far in the distance. He burrowed his nose into her hair.


	7. Protect Clan Lavellan & Wycome (pt 1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooooo everyone. This chapter is a bit shorter than my usual, only because I'M SO EXCITED and want to have this out as soon as I can. Which means there may be another part or two. Not sure yet. That being said, if things seem out of place or stupid, please let me know. I did not take as much time to edit and revise (due to excitement).
> 
> ANYWAY, I don't know how anything works in the Free Marches outside of Kirkwall, Starkhaven, and Wycome (kind of), soooo let's not think too much about that while reading.
> 
> Let me know what you think! Please! Enjoy! :o)

_Nightingale,_

_The city is safe, at least for the time being. Keeper Istimaethoriel entered the city with a contingent of Dalish elves and used magic to alleviate the effects of lyrium withdrawal for many of the city's victims._

_Unfortunately, her actions caused some of the more maddened nobles to attack. Duke Antoine gave his life protecting Istimaethoriel from his own nobles, and most of the remaining nobles of Wycome are either dead or have fled the city. For what it is worth, almost all merchants and laborers in the city saw that the Dalish were attempting to help, and banded with them to fight against the madness that had taken their nobility._

_I have heard that some remaining nobles are spreading lies in other Marcher cities, claiming that the Dalish attacked and poisoned the rulers. For now, however, the Dalish are seen as heroes in Wycome. They remain in the city, uncertain of what to do next._

_Jester_

* * *

 

She stood before him again, freckled with blood and dirt; but this time, a gown replaced the armor. Still just as beautiful.

Every spinning step as sincere as the last, he tried not to let his weariness show through. Orlesians, conspiracy, assassination, trespassing, Venatori, blackmail (Cullen could only imagine the time Leliana was having with it)… if that wasn’t enough, the small talk and the unwanted attention tipped the scales towards unbearable.

But Empress Celene wasn’t the only person the Inquisitor rescued that night.

_“Not enjoying the attention, then?” she asked, guiding him through crowds and corridors. Shortly before, she had offered him her arm much as he had to her in Jader. Her mere appearance caught him slightly off-guard; at this point in the night, he had not seen her for some time. Dumbfounded and unsure, Cullen hesitated. Was this really wise? Ora had taken the Winter Palace by storm – as well as any Dalish heretic could – with stunning efficiency. This was not the same woman he escorted at that soiree. She was harder. More confident. Focused. This time around, it was he whose hands retained a slight tremble._

_Even the masks could not hide the looks they received. “Hardly,” he responded sourly. “Anyway, yours—” A clear of the throat and another sweeping glance of all the turning heads. He continued quietly. “Yours is the only attention worth having.”_

_For reasons he did not know, her expression became heavier. Their steps tapered towards stillness. Ora released his arm._

_“You should be safe over here, for now.”_

_He snorted. Indeed, she had led them to a rather empty corner – barren only because shattered glass littered the floor and had yet to be cleaned up. “You have my thanks, Inquisitor.” He doubted she knew the breadth of his gratitude._

_She had a faint idea. ‘Cullen is afraid. They’re hunting him, following fear. He shouldn’t be here.’_

Gradually, organically, their waltz withered, albeit gracefully. He rested his chin on the crown of her head as they rocked back and forth: a lulling rhythm that had the commander’s eyes struggle to stay open. The warmth they generated between themselves warded off the chill in the air that deepened with every late hour that passed.

The music had stopped, but still they stood, both of Cullen’s arms around her now. Ora buried herself in his chest.

“Are you sure you’re just tired?” He received no response for some time. But he felt her body reply, her lungs eventually expanding more and more as the minutes drifted by. Maybe it wasn’t something to discuss right now. Perhaps he should have left the moment be as it was.

A small, muffled voice finally chirped. “No.”

A gloved hand swung up to cradle the back of her head. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

No, they didn’t. But he would find out in the official report anyway. And he was the only one who might understand why she did what she did. And, hopefully, he would not think less of her for it. But how could he not? Maybe he should.

“Gaspard was innocent, Cullen.” The commander’s muscles tensed. Grief dripped from her voice. “I am so ashamed.” Amber eyes strayed to the scenery beyond their balcony. She had to have been referring to the ‘outcome’ of the peace talks. They successfully thwarted Duchess Florianne from assassinating Celene, leading to a physical altercation in the gardens. Afterwards, Celene declared Gaspard a traitor and named Briala as marquis – a turn of events none of them had expected. “No,” she blurted suddenly, surprising him. “They were all guilty. All of them. But he is the only one to suffer the consequences. But I had to. After what happened at Wycome, I… I had to.”

 

* * *

 

—Months Earlier— 

The kiss sprang upon them both rather unexpectedly, but it was more and somehow less than what it was; it was a message to one another. In reality, not too much changed after its occurrence. They were just less unsure. Of touching, of talking. They did not have to wonder; they did not have to guess. It was a heavy weight lifted from their chests, an exhale, a prayer to the Maker and the Creators in weary thanks.

In fact, they did not kiss often afterwards. Here and there, from time to time, but in a silly, juvenile way, it still felt like they were breaking some kind of rule. Not to mention, Cullen was not as bold normally as he was that day on the battlements, and was not one to get caught up and swept away by equal parts longing and panic. Each kiss consequently started with a wordless question – a request of permission, in a way, a silent “May I?” as his face lowered to hers. Ora responded similarly each time, with a sort of pleasantly surprised silent “Yes, of course” – as if she still did not come to terms with the fact that he did actually want to kiss her, and it amused her and baffled her.

Nevertheless, she could always count on a kiss when she left, and he could always count on one when she returned. Cullen parsed and doled them out as pragmatically as he did anything else, his overzealous behavior the first time always looming over his head. Restrained and responsible. He considered it a miracle she reciprocated any feelings at all. He wouldn’t squander it. He would not scare her away, as long as he could help it. The commander was honestly shocked he hadn’t already. It was a fear in which he was greatly familiar.

The aspect that underwent probably the most change was their interactions with others. It took time for the novelty of the entire situation to wear off – if it ever really did, truly. It became one of the many reasons, when asked, Cullen opted that they keep their private life mostly private. He did not want to invalidate any actual work they did together, and he did not want it to seem like a conflict of interest. An air of professionalism still needed to be maintained. Especially since the Andraste and Maferath parallels were already being drawn. Which was as absurd as it was upsetting. At least for Cullen. Ora did not think much of it other than a quaint coincidence. That brought him some modicum of comfort.

Needless to say, the comparison settled poorly in Ora’s chest another way. In her time as Herald, Ora learned much about the Chant of Light and Andraste in general. However, Maferath was more than just Andraste’s betrayer; he was her husband. That wasn’t to say that Ora thought their… relationship would not last, nor did it mean she did not want it to. She couldn’t quite explain it. If intimidating, embarrassing, and worrying could be succinctly summed into a single word, that would be the one to use. It made it difficult to look at him, sometimes. Could she not openly respect and care for someone without it being made so complicated?

The answer, she discovered, was a resounding no. Perhaps if they had been different people at a different time. But as Inquisitor and Commander, as an elf and a human, as Dalish and Andrastian, mage and ex-templar, the real question ended up being: what _wasn’t_ sensational and controversial? She knew for sure when Varric, of all people, came to ask if she wouldn’t mind allowing him some creative license. Because it was stranger than any fiction he could think up. And when Varric Tethras compliments your ability to keep an audience interested, you know the quality of the prose cannot hide what readers see as the same attention-grabbing cliches. Something else to keep the Inquisition on everyone’s lips.

Ora and Cullen’s genre appealed only to a narrow margin. It was not news; it was just another scandal cooked up by the Dalish heretic and her steadily growing and unsettling force. Another ploy to convince the populace that she really was chosen by Andraste. Why else would she fall for a military leader, of all people? It upset Cullen because of who Maferath was and what he did. It disturbed Ora because it painted her feelings in fake and gaudy colors. She had a hard enough time accepting them herself. Seeing them warped and contorted like that… sometimes it was enough that she spent more than one night lying awake, brain and heart quarreling over what was best and what was right. It frustrated Ora to no end that she was not yet used to the moral dilemma she faced over and over again. And this time, no kingdoms or alliances hung in the balance. It all seemed so trivial when it boiled down to whether she should be kissing someone or not. In fact, it infuriated her.

How dare they? How dare they think she would not come to care for a man who saved her entire clan? Who humored her by scouring the sides of teacups for pictures in smattered leaves? Who proudly wore the flowers bestowed upon him by a child he did not know? Who more often than not joined the soldiers in the exercises he led? Who intentionally endured lyrium withdrawal to better himself? Who sells his life to a noble cause? The list went on.

Ora soon came to the same, difficult conclusion as she had in Haven: how could everyone possibly know those things? How could she expect them to? Especially now?

That was an awkward conversation with Josephine.

 _“So now that you… The recent… developments in your, ehm, relationship—There are a lot of rumors coming in concerning yourself and the… commander, Inquisitor. How should we… How would_ you _like to… Or_ would _you… like to respond to these?”_

_“Respond?”_

_“Obviously this is… titillating news and has caused quite a stir. I just did not know if, perhaps, you wished to… address some of the things being said.”_

_“Like… what?”_

_“You summoned me, Josephine?”_

_“Ah, yes. I thought this might be something that you two should decide… together.”_

_“What?”_

_“Josie, i-is this really necessary?”_

_“What is she talking about?”_

_—_

_“No, absolutely not.”_

_“Cullen, you and Ora are both highly public and influential figures. You cannot honestly tell me you did not expect this sort of thing.”_

 

* * *

 

_Da'len,_

_Thanks to the efforts of your Inquisition, Clan Lavellan is safe within the city of Wycome, and Duke Antoine's mad efforts to destroy us have ended with his death. For now, I lead both our clan and the elves of this city, while the human merchants have formed a group that deals with us fairly and honorably._

_The other cities of the Free Marches listen to the false stories of the nobles who fled. I fear they will retaliate, but I am loathe to flee this city, as that would effectively leave the city elves to die for our actions._

_If you have a path that leads to safety for our people, I welcome your advice._

_Dareth shiral,_   
_Keeper Istimaethoriel Lavellan_

 

* * *

 

“Cullen, there are other options available. You must not let personal matters interfere with your judgment.”

“Personal matters? Are you implying I would do anything less for those people even under different circumstances? Do not let _my_ personal matters interfere with _your_ judgment, Josephine.”

“My diplomat may still be able to convince the remaining Marchers to listen to reason.”

“Listen to reason? They’re marching on the claims of red lyrium-addled nobles that a Dalish clan joined forces with city elves and overthrew Wycome’s leaders! I somehow doubt that reason has any place in this situation at all.”

“And the Inquisition marches on the claims that an ancient Tevinter Magister commands an archdemon and threatens to tear open the sky! A few years ago, would you have thought the mages would rebel against the Chantry?”

“Those are two entirely separate matters. Circles were made to keep mages and people safe. Their purpose was lost. What was the original purpose of alienages, exactly? These people are not rebel mages, they’re—”

“The Lavellan clan harbors apostates.”

“All the more reason, then. If it isn’t insurrection, it will be that they shelter apostates. If the other cities are _anything_ like Kirkwall… believe me, they _want_ a reason. Besides, remind me what the precedent for quelling elven rebellions is? Perhaps we should ask _Empress Celene_ for advice on how to handle it.”

“Cullen—”

“Espionage, diplomacy, and force have all led to this point. With all due respect Josephine, this is a time to expect the worst from people – not hope to coax the best from them. If we negotiate, the Marchers will kill the elves, then send apologies. We must fortify the city.”

“And if your forces fail, the Inquisition will have another war on its hands.”

“They will _not_ want a war with _me_.”

 

* * *

 

_~~Inquisitor,~~ _

_Ora,_

_By the time you read this, I will have gone to the Free Marches with a sizable portion of our forces. My intention is not to alarm you, but we received word from your Keeper in Wycome._

_Attached is her letter and official Inquisition reports from the city._

_I know it sounds foolish, but try not to worry. No harm will come to your clan while I breathe. This I swear._

_I shall keep you updated. Stay safe._

_Commander Cullen_

 

* * *

 

Of all the places she had to be, she found herself in a place called the Emerald Graves, where each tree signified the loss of life when Orlais marched upon the Dales. An ancient elven burial ground, scattered with remnants of the people who once resided there. Giant, jarring Fen’Harel statues haunted her around every bend.

_“Do you recall seeing any stone statues around our camp? My clan’s camp, I mean. That is Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf. He is set at the outskirts of our campsites to fend off evil spirits, and to remind us to be wary. Some of the children saw you in your armor and thought Fen’Harel had come to scare off the bandits.”_

Her words echoed cruelly in her mind whenever her gaze fell stiffly upon the lupine monuments.

They didn’t seem to have protected the Dales.

Ora knew, this time, she could not drop everything and rush to the Free Marches as she once had. They would never make it in time. Refugees struggled to survive in these forests, targeted by the Freemen. Red lyrium traveled its beaten paths, smuggled and supplied to the Red Templars. New tasks popped up every day. No, Ora could not go to them. And it ate her alive, from the inside out.

 

* * *

 

Before he’d even departed, Cullen obtained a map of the city of Wycome and the surrounding areas, burning it into his memory. He designated a contingent of his forces solely to some of the Inquisition’s best engineers. By the time they reached the Storm Coast, plans had been drawn up for the city’s defenses. Cullen sent the engineers and a number of his men ahead of the main legion on a faster vessel, so that the fortification could begin without drawing too much attention with an entire army.

The commander couldn’t tell if the Marches’ weather came as a blessing or as a curse. Every autumn he spent in Kirkwall was decidedly _greyer_ than normal; and Kirkwall was very grey. Fog and rain were frequent visitors as they marched to Wycome. The only positive aspect it offered was cover; he hoped word of their advancement hadn’t reached the other city-states too soon. Likely they knew quite well, but assumed the first arrival was all the Inquisition sent. If so, they were in for quite the rude awakening.

Darkness and rain greeted them in Wycome. Even still, Cullen could already see improvements along the walls and towers. He bid his lieutenants to disperse their units in nearby woods or fields, out of sight, until he ordered otherwise.

He rode into the city in plainclothes, his horse’s hooves kicking up thick streams of mud in their wake. Whistles and hand gestures cycled among those posted along the battlements. By the time he reached Wycome’s Chantry, dark figures were there to greet him. They filed in two rows before him, opening the doors and leading him down the center aisle, from the entrance all the way to the main sanctuary. All the pews had been pushed to the side or removed, leaving space for dozens of sleeping townsfolk. Even from his distance, Cullen instinctively recognized the distinct tossing, turning, mumbling, perspirating: lyrium withdrawal. Despite the hour, the new council of Wycome awaited him at Andraste’s feet, some still in their nightclothes. He acknowledged them all with a nod, hair dripping with water.

“Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition. On behalf of Her Worship, Inquisitor Ora’ana, we offer our aid. We are at your disposal.”

“Now where have I heard that before?” came a warm, familiar voice stitched with gentle amusement.

“Keeper Istimaethoriel.” The commander bowed. “Or should I say ‘councilwoman’?” He sent her a careful smile. She returned it. He proceeded in shaking the hands of all the others present. The representatives of the city elves seemed especially surprised by this, still not used to their newfound rank and respect. “I apologize for bothering you all at this late hour.”

“No apologies necessary, Commander,” chimed one of the council members of the merchants. “We understand the urgency more than you know.”

 

* * *

 

He hadn’t stepped foot in a Chantry since Haven. As the morning sunlight poured through the stained glass windows, Cullen endured the pangs of an unanticipated unfamiliarity. The Chantry had been his second home. For the first time since he was a boy, he felt like a visitor, almost an intruder. When at first he always felt like Andraste’s gaze weighed heavily upon him, she now seemed to stare beyond him.

They hadn’t slept. From his arrival to the early morning hours, he and the Council of Wycome discussed current developments and future plans. Construction was still on-going, but leaps and bounds had been made already in terms of defense. At this point, it became a waiting game. Scouts patrolled Wycome’s border in every direction. They would not and could not be caught off-guard.

But Cullen was not good at waiting. So he found ways to occupy his time and distract his mind, from visiting the Lavellan clan children to taking off his shirt and joining his men building up the walls or carefully calibrating ballistas. He routinely checked in with his lieutenants, either by bird or in person, making sure morale remained high and soldiers ready. He was present to inspect and test the water supply to ensure it was back to safe levels, as officials claimed. He and Leliana’s agent, Jester, met daily.

He should have known better. He should have known it would catch up to him.

Pain bloomed behind his eyes. He ignored it. The nightmares permitted less and less rest. Food grew tasteless in his mouth. Cold sweats seeped from his skin. By the time he finally realized it was going to be one of _those,_ no amount of poultices or hot baths or sleep could stall what had already been set in motion.

Andraste still would not look at him. He kneeled and prayed. Let this pass before the Marchers descend upon Wycome.

Early one morning, as he curled over a bucket and vomited, threads of saliva and bile dangling from his lips, a scout entered and he knew his prayer had not been answered.

The messenger stood petrified in the door, not knowing what to think. Cullen shot him a sharp glare.

“What are you looking at? Go tell them to be at the gate.” Without a word, the scout saluted and scurried off.

The commander dragged the metal plates to his body. The chestplate suffocated him. The leather made him sweat even more. And the helm only accentuated his tunnel vision.

The bobbing of his horse turned his stomach, jostling its scant contents up and down his throat. The air chilled him to the bone, cutting through any opening in his armor to pierce his damp skin. Dizziness gripped him, and in turn he squeezed the reins for more than just control.

Apparently the helm was not enough to hide his state. The concern flashed across his soldiers’ faces, but briefly; they, at least, knew better.

“On my signal. If something goes awry, evacuate the city.” They nodded, and the drawbridge lowered, the portcullis rising. Cullen’s heels dug into the stallion’s sides, and it galloped forward. The commander went alone.

Dawn barely graced the sky. Early morning mist hung heavily in the air, not enough to obscure the army before him, but enough to turn them into shadows. Amber eyes drifted from one banner to another, revealing an uncommon Free Marcher alliance. Hercinia. Ansburg. Markham. Backing Wycome into its corner on the coast.

They allowed time for the mist to thin, the sunlight evaporating it slowly. Cullen breathed heavily now but remained steady. His horse pawed the earth anxiously. Shakily, the commander lifted his right arm into the air. With a flick of his fingers, Inquisition banners immediately unravelled along Wycome’s walls, fluttering in the breeze.

Cullen waited. This time, he made sure to wait. Coming more into focus, his rival commanders gathered at the head of their armies, engaged in the very same staring contest.

A good few minutes passed. They stood firm. Cullen’s jaw tightened as he swiveled his horse in a circle, his arm again in the air. This time, a symphony of horns roared. The forces within the city rode out, forming neat battalions on either side of their commander. Again, he waited. It felt as if something repeatedly stabbed his skull.

He waited longer this time. He wanted to measure just how much gall these Marchers had. His vision blurred, but he could still recognize archers readying their arrows from a mile away. His hand fought against gravity once more. The clarions echoed until they dissipated. From the mist, torches began to light, one by one, until a sea of lights danced in the fog. He kept his hand aloft.

This generated some reaction. Cullen’s face morphed into a scowl of agony and fury. Not enough.

Cullen lowered his arm to his side until it floated parallel to the ground. With this, two notes sang from the clarions and into the air.

The ground began to tremble. Legion after legion of Inquisition soldiers emerged from the hills, from the trees, from the fields, almost from nowhere yet somehow everywhere, falling into formation until contingents sat about six wide and four long. Soldiers choked the battlements and towers.

Cullen paced the length of his army once, then twice, finally settling front and center. Behind him, the ballistas cranked loudly. The buckets of catapults ignited. Sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging. Pain wracked him down to his very bones. It wasn’t long before he felt the hot blood from his nose cascading down his cold lips. He paced his horse now in tight figure-eights, never once taking his eyes off of them. Taunting. Fuming. Suffering.

Finally, after over an hour’s standoff, a rider cantered forth from the troops opposite him. The commander bellowed his steed into motion. They met in the middle.

Cullen must have scared the lad, because his words cut off as soon as they crossed gazes.

“H-Hail!” he stammered.

“Hail, rider,” he growled. “Commander Cullen Rutherford of the Inquisition.”

Astonishment painted his face. “Commander,” he began, and it almost sounded like a question, “I am Lieutenant-General Dartmuth. On behalf of Duke Grelm of Ansburg, Prince Wallace III of Markham, and Viscount Theodorus Maderin of Hercinia, I request a parlay.”

Cullen glanced from side to side, briefly yet scathingly. “You have it.” Without hesitation, Cullen swerved his horse back towards Wycome and sped off, leaving Dartmuth unable to respond.

As the commander rode past, the soldiers sheathed their weapons in one synchronized wave, following him to the gate and beyond. Soldiers lined the street leading to the Chantry. Ambassador Volant occupied the front steps, hands linked at her waist. She immediately noticed something odd as the commander dismounted his horse, withholding a gasp when she peeked through the mouth of his helm. He said nothing, situating himself firmly beside her. As much as his armor hid, the commander could not hide his laborious breathing.

Not much time passed before six figures trotted into view. Each leader and his personal guard.

“Welcome to Wycome, esteemed leaders. I am Lady Guinevere Volant, the Inquisition’s ambassador.” The acknowledged her with nods.

Cullen removed his helm, pinching it between his torso and left bicep. The duke, prince, and viscount all visibly flinched. Volant’s eyes widened to their limit.

“And I am Cullen Rutherford, the Inquisition’s commander,” he mimicked smugly, eyebrow twitching in irritation.

Volant fought to speak. “We are honored we have a chance to speak. Come.” She swept her arm towards the doors, doing her best not to look at the commander. “Let us waste no time.”

 

* * *

 

_Cullen,_

_I have no words. Only thanks._

_Ora_

  
  


_But I sure do. Hey Curly. I just happened to catch a glimpse of our dear Inquisitor’s rather curt reply. Accidentally, of course. As you can probably guess, she doesn’t know about my little addition, but I thought you might appreciate a small window into what those lackluster words up there actually mean._

_It means that, attached to this correspondence, are all the letters we could pick off of red lyrium smugglers here in the Graves. Every single one. Ora received your message a week ago. In the span of a week, her Inquisitorialness went from woman to weapon. Efficient. Tireless. Unflinching. But also quiet._

_She rips magic from the Void, tears it into existence. As each spell whistles past, imagine they’re screaming with either fear or rage – maybe both: emotions she has given them herself. Sweat constantly carves its way through the drying blood on her face, and she wears it like another vallaslin. You know the forest belongs to her just by the way she moves. And she stabbed some guy in the face with the sharp end of her staff just yesterday! From a tree!_

_I probably don’t have to tell you this. She’s worried and she’s angry. But those smugglers? These letters? They are for you. I accidentally saw some of her drafts, too. She can’t say it, but she’s showing it – you just aren’t here to see. So I figured I’d help her out._

_Varric Tethras_  
_Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome wingman_


	8. Protect Clan Lavellan & Wycome (pt 2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm sorry about these short chapters. Life has been a little crazy, and I honestly haven't been able to spend as much time writing as I used to. But posting piece by piece sort of gives me motivation to write more, so I guess that's good.
> 
> Anyway, a few notes before reading. There's a bit in this chapter where you would benefit from understanding the differences between Free Marcher honorifics. I'll be going by David Gaider's own interpretation. Serah = said to someone of lesser or equal status. Messere = borrowed from Orlesian, referring to someone of higher status. It just lends to the nuance of the conversation, not hugely important, but yeah.
> 
> The way things are going, the next part of the chapter will probably be the last. I also commissioned Ora from the fabulous needapotion on tumblr and am currently commissioning froschkuss to make something for this fic in particular. :) So check it out if you like awesome art!
> 
> http://needapotion.tumblr.com/post/129185277886/the-lovely-ora-lavellan-commissioned
> 
> EDIT: I added a scene I originally took out and smoothed the transition from Wycome back to Skyhold. Ctrl + F an * to fly right to it. Sorry for the inconvenience!

Though many of the citizens sought refuge elsewhere, the ill stayed in their beds. Half-lidded eyes followed the grim procession down the Chantry aisle. Armor scraped and clanged with the voices of broken bells, gleaming dully in the spotty light from both candle and sunbeam. Eventually, it joined the Council of Wycome beneath the Lady of Sorrow’s watchful eye. Cullen and Volant bridged the gap between them. 

“I’ll be the first to ask it,” Viscount Theodorus blurted gruffly before introductions could be made. “Why here?”

The ambassador turned to him and grinned genially. “What better place to initiate talks of peace than in the Chantry?”

“I’m no fool, Lady Volant.” A gloved hand gestured to the makeshift beds and their quiet inhabitants. “What exactly is this supposed to be?”

The ambassador dropped some of the cordial act – but only slightly. “What I told you is true, Viscount Theodorus. But the Wycome Chantry also happens to be a temporary infirmary for those affected by red lyrium poisoning.”

Prince Wallace scoffed. He could not discern whether they had tried to be subtle and failed, or only wished to feign subtlety in order to send a message. “So it would seem.”

“Duke Grelm, Viscount Theodorus, Prince Wallace, may I introduce the First Council of Wycome, chosen by the people to rule after the nobles met their unfortunate fate.”

“That remains to be seen.” Grelm stepped forward impatiently. He tipped his bearded chin upwards, and his personal guard marched ahead. His scathing glare settled upon each council member, who each looked just as out of place in those clothes as they did in this situation. “What is she doing here?”

“This is Councilwoman Deshanna. She represents Clan Lavellan in these matters.”

“Lavellan is quite the popular name these days, isn’t it?” Cullen had, thus far, neither moved nor spoken. At this, his head gradually swiveled to glower at the duke.

“More popular than Grelm, at the very least.”

Volant practically lunged at the commander in the most delicate way she could muster. “Commander!” She sent him a warning look before focusing again on their guests. “Why don’t we continue our discussion elsewhere? Accommodations have been made in the next room.” She watched them go with a smile. It instantaneously warped into a scowl once they’d gone. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Cullen wiped his upper lip, glancing to the reddish smear now on his glove. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The last thing we need is to antagonize them.”

His dark, sunken eyes flickered to the woman. “No, I think we do.”

“Your contribution, however invaluable, is over, Commander” she warned, voice low and severe. Her ruffled attire seemed more akin to an angry animal’s raised fur than high fashion. Cullen went unfazed. “I let you do your job. Please let me do mine.”

“I will be attending that meeting." 

Volant stood her ground. “Not like that you are not.” 

Cullen found himself mildly impressed. “I will wash up, then,” he retorted obstinately regardless, walking off. “Do not start without me.”

When he entered the conference, it was clear they had done so anyway. Their chatter died as soon as he opened the door. 

“Are you sure you should be here and not in one of those beds?” Wallace taunted with a flourish of a bulky, ringed hand. “I did not know waving your arm about could cause such injuries.”

“Messere Wallace, please,” Volant pleaded, her fingers tightly intertwined on the tabletop. Cullen said nothing, instead taking his place beside the ambassador as solidly as he could. The ground still teetered beneath his feet. Luckily, the pain in his head had plateaued. But now he heard singing.

“He has no place in this conversation anyway.”

“And why is that?” one of the merchant councilmen barked.

“Look at him! The man can barely stand!” At that moment, Jester entered the room with a steaming cup. He set it before the commander. A disgruntled pause ensued after the brief interruption. Cullen’s eyes never left the three men, expression a steady, unenthused stare.

“I appreciate your concern, serah,” Cullen retorted. Wallace withdrew bitterly.

Keeper Istimaethoriel’s back straightened, a familiar scent wafting in her direction. Her eyes glided to their corners, spying the commander’s beverage.

Duke Grelm took up Wallace’s mantle. “That’s not the only reason. We’re afraid, in these matters, the commander has a bit of a… conflict of interest.” The phrase slunk out of Grelm’s lips like a smug serpent.

“Oh, yes, that’s right!” Viscount Theodorus chimed in as if he’d forgotten and had just been reminded, though unconvincingly. “We have reason to believe this entire thing started with the Inquisition in the first place.”

Volant remained firm. “That is a tall claim, messere.”

“Is it?” Grelm leaned back, leather and metal scraping as he did so. “A Dalish elf becomes Inquisitor, and suddenly the leader of her clan sits on a Marcher city council?”

“But only after the nobility of Wycome were slaughtered or exiled,” Viscount Theodorus mumbled into his glass as he took a gulp of water. An obnoxious ahh left his throat, glass clunking against wood. 

“I’m afraid you have been misinformed.”

“Have we now? Tell me, who do we believe: your word or theirs?”

“I believe the evidence will speak for itself.” Jester re-entered with a stack of parchment: letters, reports. He placed them before the three nobles. “The humans’ well had been polluted with red lyrium by the late Duke Antoine’s Tevinter advisor. We found items on his person to suggest he belonged to the Venatori, and further documentation implicated him in the crime. It is all right there.”

The nobles began distributing the papers among themselves, parchment exchanging hands but eyes never quite looking it over.

“We have testimony directly from Lord Reston’s own mouth,” Grelm rebutted.

“You will find Lord Reston’s name among those who conspired against the elves.”

“If you don’t believe her,” Cullen announced, voice strengthened, “then keep drinking.”

Everything in the room floated, suspended. Breaths, movement, thought. The only one not bound by the silence was the commander, who casually blew the steam from his tea and took a sip.

“You would _dare?”_ hissed Wallace, whose own glass stood not as full as it had once been. 

“Oh, that little bit won’t hurt you. It takes time. The other nobles, they bathed in it. Cooked with it. Drank it. That’s why they went mad after we removed it.”

“That is no less than an act of war, Commander!” the viscount cried, face redder than a sunburnt nug.

“Gentlemen, please!” Volant shot up from her chair, arms outspread in hopes of calming the storm quickly brewing. “There is no more red lyrium in the water, we have the reports to prove it!”

 _“Your_ reports! Inquisition reports! None of it can be trusted!”

“How quickly you are to believe in it when you yourself are at risk!” screeched one of the city elf representatives, pointing accusatively, chair legs screaming across stone.

“You throw your words rather haphazardly for someone who has only just gained a voice.”

“Please! We must not lose sight of our goal here today. The fate of Wycome and its people hang in the balance.” This managed to quiet most. Silence hung in the air like dust. 

“Tell me,” Cullen injected into the stillness, clearing his throat, “how is Lord Reston doing?” But instead of clearing the air, Cullen ignited it. And he already knew the answer. They all did.

“Commander!” Volant, up until this point, had been completely professional and composed. Now, however, her neatly sewn seams began to wear. “That is quite enough!”

“No, it is not,” he staunchly countered until she backed down. “I will not coddle these men. And I doubt they want to be coddled.” Cullen’s glare dragged itself over to the three nobles. “Before I came to the Inquisition, I was a templar. Do you see me?” He pointed to his face. “This? _This_ is just from the lyrium the Chantry gave me. I stopped taking it some time ago. But this still happens.” As stubborn as the leaders were, this, at least, seemed to register a bit. “We first came to the Free Marches to help the Lavellan clan, because, yes, it was in the interest of the Inquisitor. They are her family. All further actions in Wycome have stemmed from that.”

A disgruntled Volant had no choice but to piggyback on Cullen’s speech. “I have proof that the nobles were planning on attacking the Dalish as they camped outside the city, completely going against the sanctuary Duke Antoine offered in the first place. I asked that the Dalish enter Wycome in hopes that their healers may be able to help the red lyrium withdrawal effects. As you know, Circle mages are in rather short supply these days. You will find all correspondence between myself and the Inquisition’s ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet. You will also find various correspondences from the nobles of Wycome, each with their respective seals. As well as documents from Antoine’s Venatori advisor.”

“Why was none of this brought to the ruling class’s attention?”

“It was,” she countered, the prince’s parry no match for her pointed riposte, word and look swifter than any rapier. “You try having a reasonable discussion with someone with red lyrium poisoning. They were convinced it was an elven curse, which is why they targeted the Dalish. That seemed more likely to them than their wells being poisoned, with proof.”

“If we can’t trust Reston and the others, how can we trust the commander?” Volant fought off the urge to roll her eyes at the blatant ad hominem. “Templars who stop taking lyrium have gone mad or died. If anything, he’s weakened his own argument by being here.” 

“This is not about me. I am only here to make sure you did not do something foolish.”

“You’re too young to be speaking to us like children, Commander,” Wallace growled, his voice gravel.

“Perhaps it isn’t,” Grelm injected, hoping to stem the tide of Wallace’s anger, preferring to stoke it instead of letting it blaze, “but it is still worrying. The Inquisition has become a very important and powerful organization. To know that its armies are led by an… unstable man is cause for concern.”

“Did I seem _‘unstable’_ earlier?” Every heartbeat pumped blood that felt like acid into his head. “I thought my message was quite sound.” The commander’s words came out as sharp as a blade. Some of the council chuckled under their breaths.

“No, I suppose not,” Theodorus conceded stubbornly. “But I also have a hard time believing that is the only reason you are here.”

“You will have to elaborate, serah.” Cullen’s tone dripped condescension. At this point, he had finished his tea and nonchalantly scanned the inside of his cup.

“Gladly!” Wallace cut in, wanting to be the one who thrust the dagger into the young Fereldan’s gut. “The Inquisitor has a personal stake in what happens at Wycome. And you, Commander, have a personal stake in the Inquisitor. Among… other things. If what we hear is true.” 

This caused heads to turn. Color drained from the Keeper’s face. Cullen blinked. He knew when he was being baited, but he would be lying if he said he was prepared to hear something like that. Volant watched Cullen carefully from the corners of her lined eyes. She in particular was interested to see how the commander handled this development.

“The Inquisitor and I also have a personal stake in the sky remaining whole, along with everyone else in Thedas. I fail to see how that would change anything.” So much for the commander’s straightforward approach. Perhaps now he would understand the importance of wordplay after so effortlessly using misdirection. “If you are still implying that the situation in Wycome was staged by the Inquisition solely for gain of the Inquisitor’s clan, then I suggest you review those documents more carefully. You will find that the entire thing, in fact, was staged by the Venatori advisor. He outfitted ‘bandits’ to attack the clan. That is what started all of this. If he had not done so, I doubt the Inquisition would have gotten involved. At least, until the red lyrium became a problem. Then I am sure you would not have minded our involvement.”

The Free Marcher leaders were not fooled nor were they taunted, despite Cullen’s surprising demonstration of rhetoric. “You do not deny it. And you avoid the issue.”

Cullen kneaded his brow, but whether it was out of frustration or pain no one could tell. “The issue rests among those papers. I owe you no sort of affirmation. The private life of myself – and the Inquisitor for that matter – has no bearing on this conversation.”

“Are you really naive enough to believe that?” Viscount Theodorus chortled. “I have news for you, _serah_. You do not have the luxury of a private life anymore. Not in your position. All eyes are on the Inquisition. On its Inquisitor. Ambassador. Spymaster. Commander. You better believe we would be asking the same questions if Anora and Celene cozied up to one another. You must be smarter than that, commander.”

“If I may.” Volant inserted herself back into the fray. “You claim a conflict of interest. You believe our reports are untrustworthy, biased, or skewed. Do you not?”

“We do.”

“Then there is only one solution. Have a neutral party review our reports. All three of you, if you must. Redo our tests. Challenge our results. You cannot win an argument based on hearsay. We offer you proof. You come to us with one noble’s story. Exhume his body. Test for the presence of red lyrium. Ask the people of Wycome. I could make a list, should you so desire it.”

“That will not be necessary, Lady Ambassador.”

“Excellent. I expect that you will require some time to look over the documents and make the necessary arrangements, then? We are more than happy to accommodate.”

“Of course.”

“Then I believe there is not much more to say. Wycome will remain under the rule of the elected council until such time has passed. I look forward to working with you all to resolve this matter.”

  

* * *

 

The talks ended with the nobles agreeing to spend the next few days poring over the evidence presented. In the meantime, an armistice was in place. Drenched in sweat and pale as snow, Commander Cullen held fast and escorted them to Wycome’s gates. He would not last much longer after that.

Keeper Deshanna insisted that she tended to the commander personally.

In her time at Wycome, Istimaethoriel became quite adept at treating those suffering from red lyrium poisoning. It wasn’t just about numbing the pain; it was about cleansing the body and calming the mind. At every bed: a different bowl of herbs or set of candles or arrangement of minerals. Sometimes combinations. Each individual’s remedy was specifically hand-tailored to their energy and body. She maintained small shrines dedicated to Mythal and Sylaise in private, in hopes of gaining their favor for added protection and nurturing. She even managed to hide a small statue of Fen’Harel in the grass next to the Chantry’s front steps.

She concluded that treating Cullen would at least be similar, the type of lyrium poisoning notwithstanding. But she had other reasons, too. Prince Wallace’s accusation rang endlessly in the back of her mind.

_‘And you, Commander, have a personal stake in the Inquisitor. Among… other things.’_

It couldn’t be true. Ora knew better. Their kind was already dying. Surely, as First, she understood the gravity of the situation. Istimaethoriel made certain that she did. The Keeper did not hate humans as many elves did, but this… Was her First, her Ora’ana, really choosing to _bond_ with this one?

Perhaps, as Inquisitor, she had forgotten her way. Too many humans around, too much human culture and tradition. Or had he lured her to him, as many human men did with elven women to fulfill their own fetishes and fantasies? Or perhaps it was nothing serious. Just cravings of the flesh, nothing more.

But she knew Ora was not that type of person. Unlike many of the other girls, Ora had never shown much interest in the boys of the clan. Deshanna initially attributed it to Ora’s staggering sense of duty – a good First could have no distractions. She was always so anxious. So worried. She never knew why. Then she thought it might be that Ora considered the clan too much like her family, despite not being born into it. Clan Lavellan had received her at a very young age when the Dalish met for Arlathven twenty-four years prior. Clan Lavellan had no mages. At that time, Ora belonged to a clan that roamed the sands of the Drylands near Antiva and Rivain. At the tender age of three, Ora’ana already showed signs of innate magical talent. They hoped her age would stunt the traumas of being separated from her mother and father. 

However, the bubbly, bright child grew taciturn and nervous. Deshanna made her special oils to calm her at night and to weave into her hair, as her parents had, when she could. It was difficult to come by the herbs native to the Drylands. The merchants of Wycome shepherded a bustling market, though; and for the first time in many years, Istimaethoriel found herself making these same oils for her First, stowing them delicately into a small wooden box for the Inquisition to deliver on their return to Skyhold.

Did Ora retain a duty to her clan even now, though? Did the clan even exist after they assimilated into Wycome? Was she still Keeper Lavellan? Or was she simply Councilwoman Lavellan now? Could she really be upset with Ora when she underwent the same transformation: from First of Clan Lavellan to Inquisitor Lavellan? Had she ever abdicated Ora of her status as First? Was there any need of one now? Would they still travel to Arlathven now that their homes lay anchored to the earth and the aravel were at rest?

And even beyond that, if she were to bond with this man, there lay other consequences outside of the clan. The Dalish weren’t the only groups who disapproved of such pairings. And Creators forbid if they had a child. All would know of his or her elf-blooded heritage in the body of a shem, forced to endure similar prejudices and hardship. Did she even think of that?

This was not the Ora she knew. This was not the Ora she raised. This was not the Ora she loved, who prioritized her clan and was prepared to become its shepherd. The Ora she knew, raised, and loved would have never entertained the idea of laying with a shemlen, no matter how noble, no matter how casual.

As Keeper, she was supposed to have the answers. That she had close to none settled poorly in her stomach.

Istimaethoriel tucked each bottle and vial gently into the folds of a cloth and dried grasses. She would add one more item: a deep red satchel filled with loose leaf tea. Ora would know its meaning.

 

* * *

 

*Cullen woke with a start. His small gasp echoed against the quiet walls, joining hushed footsteps and infrequent coughs. Immediately, his head seared with pain, from movement or mere consciousness he could not decipher. Slowly, painfully, the commander lowered back down to his pillow with a labored exhalation. He forced his eyelids to open despite his body’s protests. Dim light shone through the windows, but he did not know if it was dusk or dawn. Those were… Chantry windows. He strained to learn more, vision blurring along the edges.

Directly beside him sat a small table. Atop it sat a wooden bowl filled with various plants and herbs. Glimmers of what looked like some kind of stone lay scattered before it, dotting a path to the candles burning behind.

He did not realize he’d fallen back asleep.

He awoke again to a similarly ambiguous light. There were more voices now. Bare feet padded to his bedside.

“Keeper!” called out a juvenile voice. “The commander is awake!”

“Speak softly, da’len,” she replied patiently after making her way over. “You do not want to disturb the others.” Istimaethoriel placed a small wooden stool at Cullen’s bedside, her robes whispering as she sat. She looked into his face for a moment before speaking. “Andaran atish’an, Commander. How are you feeling?”

“I’ve been better,” he groaned, hoping to rub the pain from his eyes. “I’ve been worse.”

“Elasan,” the Keeper then instructed the small Dalish boy who had first heralded his awakening, “look at the herbs I have given the commander. Do you see?”

The boy neared the table and took the small bowl into his equally small hands. “Yes, Keeper.”

“You know them?”

“I… I think so.”

“Good. What else must you do?”

His dark eyes scanned the area again. “The stones,” he answered confidently. “Should they be in the water or in the fire?”

“What do you think?”

He paused thoughtfully. “The fire,” he finally said. The Keeper grinned, nodding slowly. “Right away, Keeper.” He scurried off. Deshanna’s attention eventually circled back to Cullen, calmly, deliberately. Her pleased expression melted away, however, leaving only her unreadable facade.

“How long has it been?”

“Not long.”

Hand over his eyes, Cullen breathed. His Adam’s apple bounced with a swallow. After a minute, he sucked as much air as he could into his lungs, using the imminent exhalation as an excuse to speak. “My apologies, Lady Keeper. For this.”

“No apologies necessary. Though I expect neither of us will be able to change the other’s mind.”

“Has much happened?”

“No, not much. The Marchers still camp outside Wycome as their scribes busily reproduce the evidence provided by the Inquisition. Monitored, of course.” Cullen let out a grunt. “Do not trouble yourself with that, not yet. You must avoid any undue strain.”

“Undue strain lying down in a bed?” he responded bitterly, though not towards her.

“Thought strains the mind as labor strains the body, Commander. Try to think of more pleasant things. Or nothing at all. Sleeping would be best.”

“I doubt that is possible.” Elasan returned, cradling a steaming cup in his hands.

The Keeper took it from him gently. “Let us see.” The older elf submerged her face in the rising steam, inhaling it through her nose. She held her breath for one, two, three, four seconds. She then sipped from the cup. Her brow lifted. “Very good, Elasan!” When she brought it to the commander to take, she found he stared at the two of them, a modest smile plastered on his lips. When he realized, he stuttered.

“Forgive me.” Sitting up, Cullen fought the aches and throbs and received the tea. “I was, ah… lost in thought.”

“Pleasant, I hope?”

Cullen chuckled softly to himself, lifting the tea closer to his mouth, lips coined as he blew against the surface. “Yes. I suppose.” Carefully, the Fereldan began to drink. “Hm. This is different.” Elasan crooked his head in confusion. Deshanna deduced he must be comparing it to the elfroot tea. Cullen noticed the boy’s concern and confusion. “Not… bad,” he clarified. “What is it, if I might ask?”

The Keeper glanced to Elasan, who took the hint to elaborate. “Well, it’s tea, Commander.”

“He knows that, da’len. Perhaps give him more information.”

“Oh. Well, it’s a tea from the herbs the Keeper gathered to help you. See?” Elasan nudged the bowl on the table forward. “Everyone’s is different.”

“I see. Elasan, was it? You have my thanks. The Inquisition is in your debt.”

The young elf flushed. His sights flickered frantically between the Keeper and the commander, not knowing how to react, searching desperately for some hint. “M… Ma serannas.”

“Go check on the others, da’len.” Elasan seemed grateful for the escape and did so right away. Nevertheless, he would return later, with another cup of tea and curiosity.

“Were… Were you there when Ora faced the archdemon?”

Cullen’s chest tightened, but he did not let it show. “Yes, I was.”

“Did she really do all those amazing things they say she did?”

“What have you heard?”

“Dragons, demons, traveling to the other side of Thedas…”

“Some of those things she did simultaneously.”

Elasan absolutely beamed. _“Really?”_

“Yes,” he laughed. “Really.”

“Is she alright?”

This inquiry caught Cullen a bit off-guard. He had to think about it for a second. “I certainly hope so.”

“You _hope_ so?”

“I mean… she does a lot of dangerous things. But she is still whole, if that’s what you mean.”

“No, is she _alright_. She gets scared sometimes. But only sometimes. Not all the time.”

“Yes,” he replied, not knowing if he was lying. “She is alright.”

 

* * *

 

Wycome shrunk into the distance. A week had passed. Documents had been copied and the Marchers had retreated. The commander left a good few men with Volant; enough to be able to hold the city until reinforcements arrived, if necessary. Otherwise, they were to be used at her discretion. This was not the last he’d see of Wycome, and this was not the last of their troubles. But with a certain letter pressed to his chest and a certain pouch tied to his belt, Cullen led the forces home.

Even the old magicks in Skyhold could not keep winter fully at bay once it settled in the world around them. On clear, sunny days, temperatures stayed in a manageable range; but should the sky be concealed by clouds, the wind carried with it a sharp and stinging bitterness that only deepened as evening crept closer.

Thus far, Commander Cullen had been able to write off the hole in his roof as an issue unimportant enough to deal with later. Later turned into months. But despite the layer of frost coating his bed in the morning, Cullen remained staunchly stubborn. Why waste the effort of fixing the roof when the problem could easily be solved by just acquiring more blankets? 

Though well again, the ex-templar still found himself drained from the events at Wycome, physically and mentally. His cheeks were just a little gaunter; the circles beneath his eyes a little darker; and the lines on his face a little wearier. He probably would have recovered much faster if not for one detail: now that Skyhold’s resources were readily available, Cullen dedicated his time to studying the smuggler letters the Inquisitor sent him. Maps and books littered his office more often than not, as well as various ciphers from Leliana to help decode some of the messages. The spymaster insisted he hand it off to one of her people, but Cullen refused. The red templars, Samson… they would be his burden to bear.

Besides, spending so much time in a Circle tower surrounded by books left only a few available options for ways to spend off-time. Cullen considered himself well-read. Even in Kirkwall, he found time to read when he wasn’t feeding into the madness that was Knight-Commander Meredith. These days, Varric’s serials had been making their rounds in the mountain fortress. Cullen enjoyed fiction when he was young. Trying to go through it now, however, only seemed like a guilty waste of time. There was so much to be done. Slowly but surely, he’d been forcing himself through _Hard in Hightown_ , if only to have something to talk about with Varric.

Since Adamant, Cullen carried an otherwise unfamiliar inclination to reach out to the dwarf. Losing friends to demons… he knew that well. But, in all his years alive, Cullen had not witnessed a friendship as vivacious and sincere as what he saw between Hawke and Varric. And he’d seen quite a bit of those two. Initially, it had been more than he’d liked. If there was one thing Cullen picked up as a templar, it was the ability to detach himself from the people around him. As a boy, he made the decision to leave his entire family to live that life. And he handled it well enough. But as the old saying went: you don’t know what you have until it’s gone. And after the events in the Western Approach, Cullen suddenly realized he regretted never taking up Hawke’s offer for a drink in Kirkwall.

Now, he would never be able to view the disaster known as ‘Hawke and Varric’ in its natural habitat. But Cullen was tired of regret. He was tired in general. So when he saw Varric in the tavern, it was that much easier to cash that chip.

There were quite a few ‘chips,’ though. As Varric soon came to learn, the commander intended to spend each one (which would come back to haunt him when accepting the invitation to a certain card game).

Over time, it transformed into an odd, random ritual in which Cullen would find Varric in the Herald’s Rest and share an ale or two. It was never drawn out or forced. At any rate, small talk would be – in Cullen’s eyes – an insult. So he made sure there was something solid to discuss, whether it be official business or not. Thus began his adventure into Varric’s literary world. Other times, Sera would literally jump down from the second floor to join them, which usually also attracted the attention of the Iron Bull, which then brought the Chargers into the mix. What resulted could only be described as – according to Bull – the real recipe for the explosive _gaatlok_. Cullen was not always quick enough to escape the fallout.

Of course, one of the more popular activities involved trying to get him drunk.

_“There’s only one way to get that stick from your arse,” Sera would proclaim, sliding pints towards him. “Drink enough that you shite it out!”_

_“I don’t need to tell you how to run an army,” Bull would say, “but I’ll tell you what I told Ora. You don’t want to be just an idea to your people. And what’s more human than getting shitfaced?”_

_Varric would be the one to solve the riddle. It took some trial and error, though. At first, he managed to bribe Dorian into joining them with his chessboard in the tavern. They turned it into a drinking game. For every piece lost, you would drink. Depending on how important the piece was determined how much._

_Luckily, Dorian already had a high tolerance for alcohol._

_That’s when the dwarf called in reinforcements._

_Cullen did not drink regularly. So, already, he was at a disadvantage. But as Ora sat across from him, showing none of the mercy she had those other times they’d played, the commander felt the heat in more than one way. Normally, chess was not a game to attract a crowd. This, however, was a special occasion apparently._

_“What?!” Sera screeched over the raucous din, literally hanging from Bull’s horns as she stood on his back. “Why would you do that?! You did it on purpose!” She referred to Ora’s rather sloppy move, which resulted in the removal of a mid-level piece. Everyone knew she’d done it on purpose. Even in his stupor, Cullen did as well. A smile slanted along his lips._

_Varric chuckled heartily, full and warm. “She feels bad for him. I would, too!”_  

_Little did they know, Ora’s act of clemency would be her downfall. After that, her pieces dropped like demons from a rift: one after the other. This she did not do intentionally, but no one believed that. The alcohol affected her faster and harder than even the lightweight commander._

_After the game ended, the two precariously rose from their seats in order to shake each other’s hands over the table. Instead, Ora stumbled as she held out her arm, falling atop the board and sending the pieces flying. Laughter detonated in the tavern, shaking the timber. Swiftly and unsteadily, Cullen grabbed her and attempted to get her upright, but only partially succeeded as he dragged her across the tabletop and tried to set her in front of him. They both toppled to the floor as a result. Another burst of hilarity boomed._

_“Good game,” she hiccupped, body atop his – mostly because she probably could not get up even if she tried. Her smile was silly and wonderful and true._

_“Good game,” Cullen echoed, glossy eyes languidly blinking, a stupid grin smearing across his lips._

_For the remainder of the night, the patrons would pretend not to notice the fact that Inquisitor and commander never left each other’s side, always touching in some way – whether it be using the other as support, sitting side-by-side, exchanging playful nudges, or speaking closely, no matter the volume of the room. And especially when she brought him much needed tea at the training grounds the next morning._

That was before the Inquisitor left for the Emerald Graves. It felt like yesterday.

_I probably don’t have to tell you this. She’s worried and she’s angry. But those smugglers? These letters? They are for you. I accidentally saw some of her drafts, too. She can’t say it, but she’s showing it – you just aren’t here to see. So I figured I’d help her out._

_Varric Tethras_  
_Rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome wingman_

The commander laughed through his nose as he reread the dwarf’s message again for the hundredth time, Varric’s sentiment sinking into his skin until it reached his core. A small voice in the back of his mind exclaimed in revelation. Varric was his friend.

His gaze strayed to his bedside table, where a slice of cake sat untouched. From Sera, because she said he ‘looked hungry.’ Cullen hadn’t found the courage to try it yet, unsure if the gesture came out of actual kindness or just misleading mischief.

_“It isn’t bee-flavored by chance, is it?”_

_Sera giggled and snorted. “No! You just look like shite."_

_“Ah. Thank you.”_

_“But that’s a great idea, innit? When they come ‘round asking, it was your idea, Cully.”_

_“As long as they find themselves on the right plates.”_

_“What?” She blinked. “You’d actually do it?” Joy overtook Sera’s face. It soon after returned to its smug, scheming smirk. “Of course, Commander. That’s what Friends are for.”_

Cullen immediately sent a notice to the kitchens. He doubted that would matter. Also, he hoped the cakes would hold until they made it to the Western Approach. Rylen may be expecting a package soon.


	9. Protect Clan Lavellan & Wycome (pt 3)

Art by the amazing froschkuss on tumblr! I consider it a parting gift/thank you to my readers. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

Their reunion ended up being decidedly less dramatic and romantic than some (Cassandra) had imagined (or Varric told her) it would be. When the signal horns blew announcing the Inquisitor's return, the commander did indeed meet her at the gates. But the two shared nothing more than a mutual salute and a few words.

Which is why, when Varric told her that he saw Commander Curly making his way up to the Inquisitor's quarters in plainclothes much later that night, she was loath to believe him.

But, for once it seemed, Varric was telling the truth.

Each creak of the wooden steps beneath his feet knotted his stomach tighter. It was a long march to Ora's quarters – one he hadn't made since they first arrived at Skyhold. His eyes tracked the orange glow that grew brighter, dancing and flickering against the dark stone. He almost tripped, however, and so resigned to keeping his sight on the stairs with whatever shreds of light his eyes could gather. This was not only for his dignity, but also for the parcel he carried: the Keeper's gift to Ora which she asked  _he_  deliver.

Ora faced her own dilemma. When she finally heard them, Cullen's steps transformed into a nerve-wracking countdown. Should she continue sitting at her desk reading reports? Should she meet him at the threshold? Should she sit before the fire, staring thoughtfully into the flames? The elf scurried from one place to another on the tips of her toes in an effort to be discreet.

When Cullen breached the staircase ledge, his gaze landed softly on a familiar silhouette hanging a cast iron kettle in the fireplace. Ora's eyes took a moment to adjust from the fire to the darkness, and seeing him there made her jump just a bit. But she smiled, and he smiled back. Her back straightened, hands clasping quaintly behind her as he approached, grin still smeared across his lips.

"What's this?" she asked, glancing to the box in his hands.

"A gift," he explained, "from your Keeper." Her jaw slacked in astonishment. "She asked I give it to you."

Ora received the box with a careful reverence. She turned, he followed. Cross-legged before the hearth, she set the box down to the carpet, tracing its edges with a fingertip. Though transfixed, she managed to tear her attention away to invite Cullen to sit at her side. He did so, the warmth of the fire lapping against his skin. Elbow crooked on his knee, the commander watched the elf remove the cover. Delicately, Ora pinched the mouth of a vial, excavating it from its nest of dried grasses and into the light. She stared before she uncorked it with an unexpected suddenness. She wafted the air to her nose. Cullen watched her face curve both happily and sadly simultaneously, not sure if her eyes squinted from the brilliant smile or the tears she so desperately fought contain.

"What is it, if I may ask?"

"Eth'therenas," she spoke, barely louder than a whisper. "It, ah… I was… I had trouble sleeping sometimes as a child. She would make this to help me calm down." Without much pause, Ora dabbed the oil onto her wrists and temples. She inhaled, then exhaled.

"May I?" Cullen received the vial and brought it to his nose as Ora rummaged through the rest of the box's contents. The scent was vaguely, fleetingly familiar. When his sights set back on the Inquisitor, she stared at a red pouch resting in her palm. "What is that?"

She did not answer right away. "Tea."

A peculiar quiet settled among them. Cullen's gaze strayed to the kettle in the fire. She was still staring at it when it returned to her. "We should have some, then," he smiled. A laugh forced its way from Ora's throat. "I've, ah… missed it."

She still did not look to him. "Have you?" she asked absently, edge of her mouth twitching with a half-formed grin. Her fingers closed around the pouch.

His head dipped, his jaw clenched, his throat jumped as it cleared. He rolled the phial between his thumb and index finger. Why was this still difficult? Why? It followed no logic. He didn't really miss the tea. He missed the person attached to the cup. The ache joined his long list of symptoms in Wycome, sharper and more persistent than ever before. He supposed that made sense, at least. He'd been surrounded by her clan, fought for them, healed with them. There wasn't much he could do to  _not_  think of her. Every sprig of elfroot, every pointed ear, every vibration of magic, every flash of dark hair, every elven word spoken like silk. He'd watch the smoke from candles and incense furl in the rays of light beaming through windows, and somehow his thoughts would land on her. Unlikely scenarios would play in his head of Ora arriving in Wycome. Wondered if she'd still greet him with a kiss despite his pathetic, disheveled state.

"So have I," she added softly, gingerly returning the pouch to its bed of grasses. "But you wouldn't like this tea."

"That has never stopped you before," he joked.

Ora's legs unfolded beneath her as she stood. "I suppose not." She placed the parcel on her desk. Her palm brusquely wiped her cheek in an attempt to be both quick and inconspicuous. But before she knew it, Cullen stood behind her, holding out the vial of eth'therenas she had forgotten. She did not meet his eyes. "Oh, thank you." Ora cleared her throat, hoping to regain some stability. "Would you go grab those pillows while I ready the tea?"

"Of course." He dutifully obeyed, snatching the cushions from Ora's sofa and tossing them haphazardly on the carpet before the hearth. In the meantime, Ora retrieved her cups from the mantle and plucked leaves off the dried elfroot stalks hanging right below them. The two sat, a bit closer now, waiting in silence for the kettle's beacon of steam. It became too much for Ora'ana to bear. She had to do something, say something, think of something else besides the red pouch sitting on her desk.

But there was nothing else worth asking. "How are they?"

He was wondering when she'd ask. "They are well."

Her insides screamed. "The children are happy? Healthy?"

"Very much so. Many have already made friends outside of the clan."

"Have they?" she asked with a breathless joy, masterfully concealing the anguish that lurked below it. "How do you know?"

Cullen nodded. "The boy, Elasan," he began, not realizing the uncomfortable direction the story headed, "he, ah… tended… to me… when I fell ill. We spoke at length about this and more." She grinned. Cullen could not put into words how much he enjoyed making her do so. "Elasan may have also told the others I was bedridden with lycanthropy," the commander added hastily. Immediately, Ora smothered her face in a pillow, fingers digging into the fabric. Even her feet intertwined at the toes in discomfort. "After that, most young ones kept their distance, Dalish or no. So there was some communication amongst the city elf and human children at least."

The Inquisitor dragged the pillow downward, revealing only her eyes. There was no hiding the laughter swirling within them. Thrusting the cushion into her lap, Ora bit her lip in hopes of quelling a smirk. Staring into the fire, she was only partially successful.

"The Keeper has taken him under her wing, then?"

"Yes."

"That is… That is good. He always was very bright." Ora smiled, albeit briefly. Combing a lock of hair behind a pointed ear, she held the pillow flush against her breast.

"He reminded me of you."

A few abashed laughs forced a path through her throat. "Did he?"

"Yes," he answered warmly. "It seems your Keeper may have a preference in apprentices."

He was trying to make her feel good, proud, happy. He couldn't know he did the opposite. Not unless he somehow heard the terrible things the red pouch whispered harshly from the dark. But he also could not know just how much the sentiment meant at that very second. She wanted his voice to drown out the others in her head. Keep talking. Keep talking.

"That is a good thing, I hope." She knew what he meant, but she needed him to keep talking.

"It… It is," he stammered. Fidgeting, Cullen chewed his lip, cursing his apparent thoughtlessness.

His misplaced, awkward panic was bittersweet. She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry. It was a tenuous balance to maintain. She would end his needless suffering. "I know, Cullen," she teased.

He looked unconvinced, worry still carving its way along his brow. Finally he glanced away to the hearth, rubbing the back of his neck. "Forgive me. It appears I still do not know how to properly give a compliment."

"You do." His eyes jetted to her, shocked. "I…" Pausing, she held her breath _._  "I just like hearing them from you."

Sheepishly, the blushing commander fought off a grin that flickered on his lips. He could not meet her gaze for a minute or so. Clearing his throat, he finally mustered the courage to look in her direction, unable to hide the gleam in his smiling eyes. "That's good. I mean, I am glad. That you do. Of course." Why wouldn't she? Maker, take him. Quickly but painfully.

Her expression sobered after a moment, fingers absently playing with the pillow's tassels. "And… you are feeling better?"

Cullen's own voice softened. "I am." A log in the fire collapsed, sending a cloud of sparks up into the draft. Their shadows danced erratically behind them. Ora rose to her feet, using a ratty cloth to grab the kettle from its hook and pour its boiling contents into their waiting cups. Again, she folded her legs and sat; and again, they found themselves closer than before. Their shoulders could almost touch now, if one were to lean a bit. "You should tell me of the Emerald Graves."

A pleased hum vibrated in her chest. More talking. Of other things. "What would you like to know?"

"Whatever was not in the report, I suppose." He lifted the rim of the teacup to his mouth and took a careful sip.

"So, the interesting bits."

The commander snorted. "Yes, Sera. The interesting bits."

Her fingertip traced the lip of her cup, swirling the steam as it rose. "I was raised in forests. Never have I seen one so green. Barely any sunlight reached the floor; most of it passed through the leaves first. Wildflowers wherever the sun did touch."

"So it lives up to its name, then?"

"Yes. Fortunately, and unfortunately. You cannot go too far along without running into an ancient elven ruin or an Orlesian chateau in disrepair. But, in its own strange way, the decay was beautiful, too. Ivy climbing up walls. Trees sprouting beneath floorboards and growing through roofs. More hills of stone than earth, swathed in lush grass. Windy cliffs. Crystalline streams."

He watched her as she spoke. A twitch of the lips here, a furrow of the brow there, new and old scars highlighted by the warm glow. A flutter of eyelashes when she delved into her mind to remember. She sat on her knees, shoulders curled inward, holding her teacup daintily, as if she might soon pour it on the ground as a libation. To whom, he wonders. Is there an elven god of tea? Her hair hung unbound, cascading down her back and over her collarbone. How long it had grown. He had missed the way the timber of her voice settled into his bones, like the long, whirring resonances of Chantry bells. He listened to her words, yes, but more eagerly absorbed them.

He knew he was being ridiculous. He knew he would look back on these thoughts and roll his eyes at the overblown sentiment. But, Maker, he has missed her. Missed those ticks and and mannerisms. The comfort and familiarity in them, the gratitude that he knows them. Missed the feeling of knowing she was near and all that it entailed. He could barely articulate it. The vibration that her existence emitted into the air. And that, for some strange, incomprehensible, baffling reason, she was there with him, not by circumstance, but instead by  _choice._  Him. The man stained by demons, by hatred, by blood, by anger, by fear, by hypocrisy, by addiction. Her vibration drowned everything else out. Pushed it away. Separated it.

She laid against him now, his own back propped up by a pillowy knoll. They both scanned the insides of their emptied cups in near perfect silence, searching for shapes and signs. The eth'theranas drifted from her skin to his. It was not long before they both fell asleep.

The cold was what woke him. The cold air, the cold floor. Dim embers barely clung to life, sinking pitifully in the fireplace. Ora lay nestled to his chest, his body the only barrier against the chill, her breaths still rising and falling in an even, sleepy cadence. Confusion and grogginess were quick to melt away. What time was it? Cullen tried sitting up, but Ora pinned his right arm down. With much care and much luck, Cullen somehow reached her bed, pulled back her blanket with his foot, set her down, tucked her in, and turned his attention to the fire.

Quietly, carefully, he neatly piled fresh wood onto the grate. It wasn't long before he realized he did not have anything to light it. She kept no flint at the hearth, and not a candle still burned. He murmured a curse, completely at a loss until the wood suddenly ignited. Startled, he fell back onto his bottom.

"Maker's breath!" He held his arms up as if he'd just been disarmed, head slowly swiveling to look behind him. Ora lay on her stomach at the foot of her bed, enveloped by a downy cocoon, watching him with drowsy eyes. "I didn't mean to wake you." She shook her head negatively and opened her mouth to say something, but all that escaped was an overbearing yawn. Cullen collected the scattered teacups and placed them back on the mantle. For a moment or so afterwards, he stood there, hands on his hips, motionless, wordless.

"Are you leaving?" Her voice jerked him from his thoughts.

"I should," he admitted, rubbing his nose. "I have an army to train at dawn. No, no need to get up." Cullen made his way to her bedside, sitting down on the edge. Ora draped her arms around his neck, sinking into him. He returned the gesture, and they sat intertwined for a good while before he finally attempted to separate.

"Stay until dawn, then," she grumbled.

"I shouldn't."

The elf let out a displeased  _hmph,_  making no effort to budge. Soon enough, however, Ora's arms slid half-heartedly from his shoulders and to the bed. He pried her away as gently as he could, grinning like a fool the entire time. At some point she regained her bodily control and sat up of her own volition, pulling the blanket closer with one hand and rubbing an eye with the other.

"Lie down, go back to—" She cut off his words with an unexpectedly forceful kiss. He'd barely had time to process the event before she pulled away. A single laugh escaped his nose. "Goodni—" Ora felt his lips smile against hers. Cullen kissed her back this time. Before he could take a proper breath, their mouths collided yet again, and she was pulling herself closer to him gradually enough that he did not notice.

A kiss had not felt so deep and desperate since their moment on the battlements. But this was different. It was now Ora who kissed him with that hunger. The warmth of her body coursed down his throat and pooled in his gut. It was not a primal craving, at least not in the way most would describe it. She did not think she could put into words everything she wanted the kiss to mean. Mostly, she was afraid to try. How clumsy words were, how limiting. At least, that is what she told herself to make not saying easier. Saying was hard. Showing was not. Not for her. Showing was doing. Doing was instinct. Instinct was thoughtless. Instinct was natural. Instinct was hold his jaw, breathe his skin, press against him so that he knew she was willing to give what he did not already have.

Cullen was none the wiser. So used to giving, he was not used to having. So much so that the concept rarely crossed his mind. His only true possessions had been his sword, shield, and faith since he was ten years old. Joining the Inquisition had perhaps been one of the most selfish things he'd done. Accepting Cassandra's offer was the first thing he'd really  _taken_  since his brother gave him that coin before he left for templar training. And even then he gave that away eventually.

And yet, how greedily he received her lips. Her attention. Her time. Her gaze. Her fingers digging lightly into his chest. The small of her back arching as his arms wrapped around her like thick vines, one hand daring to graze her spine as the other raked through the hair at the nape of her neck.

Cullen did not deserve this. He believed that almost as much he believed in the Maker. The truth of it hurt, but he persisted. He did not know why. Pain should have been a discouragement: a notice to avoid that which caused it. But what was he to do if the cause was himself? What was he to do if his dreams reminded him almost every night of the filth on his body and lyrium in his veins and blood on his hands? Why was this happening? How could it be possible?

Maybe it wasn't. The commander gasped, ripping his mouth from hers, eyes searching her face in a panic, shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths. Ora withdrew as much as his grasp would permit. The fire behind him reflected brilliantly in her eyes: something about elves he once found a bit disconcerting. But, in that moment, it was the most comforting and reassuring thing he could have seen.

He drew her close again. Each rested their heads in the crook of the other's shoulder, Ora's legs around his waist, arms folded and pressed between their breasts.

Cullen would stay until dawn.

 

* * *

 

—Halamshiral—

 

Cullen and Ora rested their heads in the crook of the other's shoulder. Her hair still hung damp from washing away blood and sweat and Orlesian perfume. She hadn't expected him to join her so late (or early, depending on who asked). She also hadn't expected his response to her confession — "Best not talk about it here." — to mean anything beyond its face value. But it must have meant  _we can talk later_  or  _we will talk later_  or  _I will listen later_  or something else she felt like she didn't deserve.

They could both barely remain awake. Even as his limbs leadened, they diligently held around her body in a solid, steady embrace.

"Did I disappoint you?" came a small voice, much more lucid than his own. He managed not much more than a grunt in response, but his slow mind eventually pieced her words together.

"Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

Cullen's eyes could not bring themselves to open. "Quite sure."

"Even Gaspard?" she added weakly.

The commander heaved a heavy sigh. "You did what you thought was right."

"No, I didn't. I knew it wasn't. I knew."

Turning his head, Cullen nuzzled his nose into her hair, his fatigue loath to dissipate. The conversation forced it to unwillingly, little by little. "Then why did you?"

"I told you."

"Wycome?"

"Yes."

Silence joined them for a while. "Why did that make it wrong?"

"Because," she replied with an angry sort of eagerness, "i-it was selfish. I'm…" Her voice began to waver. "I'm supposed to be doing what's best for everyone, not just myself. And now a man is dying for it."

Cullen found it strange how similar their conversations could be to others they'd had in the past. This felt painfully familiar. "You didn't do it for yourself, Ora."

He could feel her tears seeping through his sleeve. "Then what would you call it? I didn't do it for the Inquisition. Gaspard would have been a strong ally."

"You already answered that. You did it for Wycome." Of course, Wycome didn't mean just the city-state. They both knew what it meant. It meant elves. It meant her clan. It meant Deshanna, Iriel, Elasan, Velara, and all the others.

"It wasn't right," she whispered. Her tense muscles trembled with frustration and overwhelming shame, aggravated by her attempts to quell her weeping.

Cullen waited until he heard her breathing stabilize. "I must be very selfish, then."

"W-What?"

He took a breath before replying. "I went to the Free Marches the first time for you," he admitted, voice low. "Not for the Inquisition, not for tactical reasons." Ora removed herself from his embrace. Her red, weary, damp eyes scoured his face for some sort of explanation. "The last time, I went for Wycome. Because going for Wycome was going for you. I risked the lives of my men, the security of Skyhold, a war with three states for Wycome. Do you think I'm selfish?"

A tremulous hand covered her mouth. "You shouldn't have done that."

His frown deepened. "Are you disappointed?"

Her resolve could not withstand another blow. The elf fell apart before him, tears flowing over her fingers, breathing ragged and pitiful. "No."

Cullen brought her hand down and held them both in his own in their laps. "If I am not selfish, you are not selfish. Or, maybe I am and make poor decisions. But that is why I am not the Inquisitor.  _You_  are the Inquisitor. And you are not selfish." Ora looked away, the lids of her eyes closing and freeing a cascade of tears.

"This is different, Cullen. I'm different."

"You're not, Ora."

"Yes. I am."

"You're not."

"Yes I am!" she bellowed.

Cullen rose his voice in kind. "Someone once told me some things do not have to  _be_  about the Inquisition."

Ora would cry herself to sleep eventually.

When the two failed to appear in the morning, Josephine found them both huddled on the lounge before a dead fire. She chose not to disturb them.

 

* * *

 

—Skyhold—

 

Cassandra looked down at the box the commander placed in her hands. "Why can you not deliver it yourself?"

"It is not a matter of whether I can or cannot, Cassandra."

"So you… do not want to?" The Seeker's nose crinkled with the furrow of her brow. "What manner of thing is it, Cullen?"

"It's… It isn't… Just… take a look."

Skeptical and honestly a tad annoyed, Cassandra acquiesced, though she would have preferred to not do so. Her hard gaze brushed across what looked to be a coat or cloak, finely made. "Is the Inquisitor in need of a new coat?"

"No, not… necessarily."

"Then what is the point of this gift?"

"Gifts require reason to be given?"

"I suppose not, but—"

"You depart for Emprise du Lion tomorrow. It is… cold there. Thus, a coat," he pointedly elaborated, thinking he sounded much more certain than he actually did.

"Ora has a coat."

"Yes, I am aware. This one is different. I… commissioned it from the tailor who made mine."

With this new information, Cassandra set the box onto his desk and removed its contents. She observed the garment as it dangled, eyes switching from it to the commander more than once. There were a few similarities, most notably the presence of a 'mane' of sorts. Though this one was white and grey compared to his black and red. "Is that significant?"

Cullen's eyes clamped shut, dismayed. "Apparently not."

"You confuse me, Cullen."

"I wanted your opinion."

"My opinion?" Her voice spiked with bafflement. "Of what?"

"Of the gift. I thought you'd… It's just… I'm not very knowledgeable of this whole 'romance' thing."

Her eyes narrowed, lips pursed into an impossibly tight line. Her next words crawled out of her throat leashed with tempered restraint. "And you suppose that I am?"

As the implication of his statement quickly caught up to him, the commander blinked. Jaw tensing, lungs freezing, the usually unshakeable Fereldan appeared quite nervous. "I only meant—"

"I'm going to  _kill_  him."

"Him?" The question weaseled its way from his lips, and he regretted it immediately. Luckily, however, Cassandra seemed to ignore it for the most part. Finally, he realized she meant Varric. She thought  _Varric_ had told him of her taste in literature. Relieved, he relaxed slightly, though still concerned about the fury with which her hands clenched the cloak.

"But I think I understand now." Cullen opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it, instead letting his surprised expression do the talking. Cassandra visibly calmed. "Yes. I will give it to her. But might I make a suggestion?"

"O-Of course, please!" This inefficient and indirect method of receiving advice was going so much better than it had with Rylen. At least, he thought so, until she elaborated. She pushed a piece of paper across his desktop towards him. "Are… you sure that is not too much?"

"It's the truth, is it not?"

"I suppose, but—"

"Then it is not."

* * *

 

Once camp had been established, the Seeker approached the Inquisitor at her tent, leaving her with the mystery parcel and walking away with a smirk. Ora opened it right there, the wind instantly blowing a piece of parchment into the air. With a sharp yelp, Ora chased after it. It did not take too long to wrangle, though she retrieved it a bit worse for wear. The elf scanned the ink smudged from the wet snow.

_Since I am not there to keep you warm, at least I know you will be._

 

* * *

 

"Our good commander is marking his territory now, is he?"

"Comments like that are why I bring you to the most miserable places, Dorian." Ora tried to mask her words with convincing disdain.

The Tevinter mage cocked an eyebrow, sneering. "Is that what you tell yourself?"

Ora peered over her pale, furry mantle, laughter and love carving its way across her lips and eyes. "Your moustache is frozen."

"So is yours," he snapped defensively, though he wrestled with a grin. It won when Ora bumped her head against his arm, resting there with her eyes closed, smiling softly.

 

* * *

 

The moment they'd left, Cullen took up his post at his desk, forearm draped over his eyes in shame in attempt to smother the perpetual blush claiming his face.

Despite it all, he would not realize his trite, corny message would give him the confidence to verbalize other truths later on. Particularly before traveling to the Shrine of Dumat.

" _All the more reason to go. I would… sleep better, if I knew I would be at your side."_

And although the Dalish did respect deed over word, Ora was gradually beginning to warm up to the latter nonetheless. Especially when it came from his mouth.

 

* * *

 

—Months Later—

 

Ora held the red pouch of tea from her Keeper, hovering over the rest of her gear as she packed for Val Royeaux. She would never tell him, and she hoped he'd never know. But the tea was a message. A warning. A condemnation. An accusation. A rebuke. A disapproval. The Keeper must have learned about her relationship with Cullen, because why else would Istimaethoriel have him deliver a bleeding tea directly to her?

They called it tu'len'din.  _To make a child not be._

The Herald had half a mind to throw it into the fire. She did not, however. Instead, she debated with it endlessly.

Eventually, she came to the conclusion that, yes, she would keep it. Use it, if such a situation arose, as unlikely as it was. But not for the Keeper's reasons. They would be her own.

This did not mean Ora did not understand. She did, quite well. It had been drilled into her mind from her earliest memories. Her purpose was to preserve. To rediscover. To sustain by giving birth to elven children of her own and instilling in them along with the rest of the clan the very same virtues. She might have complied in the past. Had the Keeper found out sooner and sent the bleeding tea then, it would have most certainly ended what she had with Cullen. But things changed. Things were changing.

Some things did not have to be for Clan Lavellan.

Some things did not have to be for the Inquisition.

He had said Wycome was for her. Halamshiral was for him.

Well, for them, really. For the elves, yes. For her clan. But for him and for her. That is partly why she broke down the way she did. Celene and Briala could not help but be a mirror, and Ora could not help but see herself in it. See him in it. If the Empress of Orlais could openly love an elf, her own spymaster, then why couldn't the elven Inquisitor love her human commander?

Because, she did love him. She did not yet have the courage to tell him, nor the courage to admit it to herself. But the truth still lingered there before her very eyes, and she could only pretend not to notice. She still struggled with the fact that such a thing influenced her decision at all.

Everything else, she gave. But she would have this. She would have it for as long as she could help it.

Ora returned the pouch to the mantle with some haste. She was already late.

Luckily, he seemed to be behind schedule as well. Sneaking in through a crack in the door, Ora watched and waited, listening as Cullen delivered orders to a herd of his lieutenants with his usual serious conviction. Ora swallowed back a bit of laughter.

"—assist with the relief effort."

Not well enough, apparently. The commander's face automatically donned an irritated scowl, wondering which of the soldiers had the gall, but it melted away almost instantaneously when she sent a few small waves and a grin in his direction.

"That will be all."

"Ser."

They filed out, each giving their own respectful acknowledging nod to the Inquisitor while she did so in return. Cullen closed the door behind him with an almost comical impatience. "There's always something, isn't there?"

Ora shed a soft, sympathetic grin. "Long day?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! Thank you so much for reading and enduring this with me! I appreciate all of the support and feedback; I can't tell you how much it means to hear that this 9 month project (aka literal child) enriched others' lives, even if minimally. I am contemplating perhaps writing an epilogue to touch upon what happens between Ora and the Keeper after the defeat of Corypheus but before Trespasser - mostly because my intention with this fic was to stay within the bounds of the Lavellan clan missions as a framework. If you are interested, please let me know! Thank you again! All my love! - arii


End file.
